


Heartbeat At My Feet

by Allie_J



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bisexual!Steve, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bucky is a really chill boss, But not in a kinky way (yet), Did I mention... dogs?, Dog grooming AU, Dogs, M/M, Maximum Pining, Nat and Clint have babies!, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, gay!Bucky, lots and lots of dogs, minimum angst, skinny!hipster!artstudent!Steve, warveteran!Bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6248485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allie_J/pseuds/Allie_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a mostly-recovered war veteran who opened a dog grooming salon so that he could spend his days with a maximum of dogs and a minimum of people.</p>
<p>Natasha is his salon manager and walks a dangerously thin line between her hiring duties and meddling in Bucky's non-existent love life.</p>
<p>Steve just needs a job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yorkshire Terrier

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this plotbunny floating around in my head for months, so I finally decided to write it out. Never a good idea - not when I have other stories that I started and haven't finished yet - but ... maybe now I can do what I often do with my established fics and procrastinate! 
> 
> Also, if another grooming salon AU exists out there, I will be shocked. Shocked.

He sipped his coffee, wincing and trying to ignore the burn of the searing hot liquid on his tongue, as he barged in through the front door. The bells tied to the inside handle jingled pleasantly, and he sighed, tipping back another swallow. Another day, another dollar.

 

He marched into the office, abandoning the half-empty cup on the desk and pulling off his scarf in rough tugs, twisting it into a loose circle and throwing it onto his hook before moving his hands down to start on his peacoat.

 

“You’re late,” a voice said, a strange mixture of sharp and syrupy-sweet. He sighed again, lower this time, but didn’t turn around.

 

“I own the place,” he snapped, fumbling his hands on the large buttons.

 

He could almost picture her smile, the way her head would be tilting to the side, body leaning back in his swivel chair. As if on cue, he heard it groan, the wheels squealing slightly as she nudged it back.

 

Nat had never once been late. Traffic, hangovers, cell phone alarms accidently set to PM instead of AM – she was a goddess of punctuality, above it all. It was an amazing quality to find in an employee, especially a salon manager, but a little humiliating when the day came that he couldn’t live up to her standard.

 

“And thank God I run it for you,” she said, her voice practically purring. “You know what would solve this problem? A coffee machine. No need to throw money at Starbucks, wait in their lines every morning -”

 

“We have a coffee machine,” he snapped, voice sour as he glanced at the clock. He shrugged his loose coat off his shoulders, pointing absently to the little machine tucked into the corner of the room, its stained glass pot eternally empty.

 

“A proper coffee machine,” she said, smiling again as he finally turned around. “Ever heard of expresso? A Keirig, at least.”

 

“Christmas is coming up,” he said, leaning forward to try and get a look at the computer screen behind her. The schedule was pulled up, and he groaned internally – no free slots. It looked like he was booked solid. Again.

 

“Don’t frown at it like that,” Nat said, following his eyes. “Would you rather we were dead today? No clients? Slowly going out of business?”

 

Well, no, he thought bitterly. He wondered if he would have time to run out for lunch today, or if instead he’d be rummaging through his desk, looking for the package of emergency ramen noodles he kept stashed there expressly for days like today. He sighed interally.

 

“Forget a coffee maker,” he said, mumbling to himself more than anything. “We need a goddamn bather.”

 

They’d had the sign up in the window for weeks, and Bucky wasn’t sure what the problem was. Evidently, no one wanted to get soaking wet washing dirty dogs every day in the middle of a chilly autumn in exchange for no benefits and shitty pay. Shocking.

 

His eyes drifted from the screen to Natasha, and he startled a little. She was smiling. Wide.

 

“About that,” she said, leaning back a little more comfortably in her chair. His chair, he reminded himself – his chair, his desk, his office. Maybe in some perfect future, he could afford the rent on a shop big enough for two of each.

 

“We got a new application yesterday,” she said. He frowned, disturbed, a little, by the slow, calculating way she was revealing this information. As if every word brought her pleasure. “Stopped by in person.”

 

“Really,” he said, furrowing his brow. There was definitely something more going on here, but – he glanced up at the clock again, cursing. “That’s great, Nat, but – can you run it by me quickly? I’ve only got ten minutes until my eight o’clock dogs start showing up.”

 

She grinned. His stomach dropped.

 

“A little wager, first,” she said, bringing her hands together pointedly over her lap.

 

“Nine minutes,” he said, not returning the smile.

 

“If he lasts until the New Year,” she said, threading her fingers together. “You will purchase the salon the kind of coffee machine I deserve.”

 

“Assuming I agree to hire this person,” he said slowly (rolling his eyes internally, because he’d long grown sick of hearing about the goddamn motherfucking coffee machine situation and decided it would be a nice gesture after the hell that was their busiest season of the year to finally get a new one) – “You may have a deal.”

 

“Excellent,” she said, her eyes flashing dangerously. “So – let’s see – he’s an art student. A little on the shorter side. Kind of hipster looking, he’s got these tattoos going up his –“

 

“Hey, woah, slow down,” he interjected, putting up his hand. The only relevant piece of information in that list was ‘art student’ – and only because that explained why he was willing to take the shitty pay. “I don’t care what he looks like. Did you ask him anything, I don’t know, pertaining to the job?”

 

“He has the hipster glasses too,” she said, looking up a little wistfully into the space between them, as if imagining him again. “But I forgive him because they’re actually really cute on –“

 

Bucky pursed his lips into a thin line. He had an idea where she was going with this.

 

“Can he lift a sixty pound lab into the tub?” he asked darkly.

 

“Well,” Natasha answered after a moment, drawing out the word. “He’s a little – small. But he has gauged ears –“

 

“Nat,” he said, trying his best to channel his inner scary boss face.

 

“But they’re little,” she continued. “Not big ones. I know you think that’s gross.”

 

God, the things he regretted telling her once he had a few beers in him –

 

“So his ears won’t look like saggy vaginas if he takes them out, don’t worry,” she rushed on, before he even had a chance to jump in and comment. “Ahh, what else – ooh – he was wearing army boots –“

 

“Focus,” he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “The job? Is he afraid of dogs?”

 

You’d think no one in their right mind would apply for a job as a dog bather whilst harboring a fear of dogs, but Bucky had learned that lesson long ago. A particularly hyper Husky had jumped up on a new bather’s shoulders, going for kisses, and the girl had been so startled she’d handed the leash off to Sam and stormed out of the salon in frustrated tears.

 

She’d taken her smock with her, and hadn’t come back to return it. He’d been pissed about that. That smock had cost him good money.

 

“He said he loves dogs,” Nat replied. Finally, a relevant answer. “Well, actually, he said he’s more of a cat person. And he said he can’t have a dog since he’s in school and he has this tiny shitty apartment and no free time –“

 

“Is he prejudiced against bully breeds?” he asked, not bothering to filter out the annoyance in his voice.

 

“- but he really does like them,” Nat finished. “And I think he’s gay.”

 

Bucky took in a deep, shuddering breath, willing his hands, already slowly curling into his fists at his sides, to relax again.

 

“Just because he’s a hipster art student,” he said slowly, carefully. “Does not mean he’s gay.”

 

“Well, yeah, but it ups the chances considerably,” she quipped back. “And I did that thing where I – you know, pushed my boobs together with my arms and leaned forward –“

 

He rolled his eyes as she demonstrated, looking pointedly toward the shitty coffee machine.

 

“- and you know what he did? He kept looking at my eyes, Bucky. My eyes.”

 

“So he’s a polite sort-of dog lover,” he snapped, glancing back at her, relieved to find she’d shifted her shoulders back to a normal position. “Not a pervert. Good to know. Generally wouldn’t want hire someone that was going to oogle my staff all day.”

 

“Are you sure about –“

 

Just then, a shrill ring cut through the room. For a moment, both parties froze – and then Bucky dove for the phone, snatching it off the receiver seconds before Nat could lunge forward off the office chair.

 

She frowned sourly at him, clearly sulking, as he answered.

 

“Wet Dog Grooming Salon,” he said, in his best super cheerful customer voice.

 

“Hello,” the voice on the other end said. “I’d like to schedule an appointment for my dog?”

 

“Absolutely,” Bucky purred, shifting the phone more comfortably between his jaw and shoulder. Natasha had slumped back into the office chair, still glowering at him. As she stared, he slowly raised his middle finger in the air, wiggling it back and forth in front of her as her frown darkened. “What kind of dog do you have?”

 

“She’s been there before.”

 

Oh, he thought, momentarily forgetting his salon manager. So it was going to be one of those calls.

 

“All right,” he said, careful to keep his voice upbeat. Extremely upbeat. Why was it so fucking hard for some people to understand that he needed to block out more time for a chihuahua than a St. Bernard? “And what’s your dog’s name?”

 

“Bella.”

 

Jesus Christ, he thought. They had to have a hundred fucking ‘Bella’s.

 

“Annnd – your last name?”

 

The caller on the other end of the line – an older woman, from what it sounded like – sighed.

 

“She’s a Yorkshire Terrier.”

 

Oh, well, that narrowed it down. He pursed his lips, trying to ignore the ironic contrast between the haughty way she said the breed and her pronunciation of ‘York – shy – error’.

 

“Oh, Bella,” he said, lighting up his voice with fake recognition. He caught sight of Natasha grinning at him in the office chair, biting her lower lip and trying not to laugh. He shoved her lightly with his right hand, ignoring the soft yelp she made as the chair tilted back just enough to startle her briefly.

 

He glanced at the caller ID, quickly typing in the woman’s number, hoping, praying –

 

Yes, thank fucking God. It was the same number listed on her account, pulling it up immediately.

 

“And when would you like to bring Bella in?” he asked, hovering closer to the screen. He heard the quiet squeal of the office chair moving behind him, and he frowned, resisting the urge to turn around and watch whatever Natasha was up to.

 

“Next Saturday.”

 

“All right, let me just – “

 

There was a tap on his shoulder. He glanced back, a little annoyed, and saw that she had written something in block letters on a blank piece of computer paper, holding it up in front of her chest.

 

<PLEASE HIRE HIM>

 

He rolled his eyes, turning immediately back to the schedule on the screen.

 

“Saturday? Okay, we have – would a three thirty work?”

 

“Do you have anything earlier? I have a mani-pedi scheduled at two.”

 

Another tap on his shoulder. Knowing that ignoring her was no solution – one tap would only turn into tap tap tap, followed by a kick to his ass if he still ignored her – he glanced back.

 

<YOU REALLY NEED TO GET LAID>

 

The word ‘really’ was underlined three times. He gave her as deathly a look as he could manage, slowly mouthing the words ‘fuck off’.

 

“Hello?”

 

He jolted back to the computer screen, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again. Trying to focus.

 

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “We could do a nine instead, would that work better for you?”

 

Another tap on his shoulder, more insistent this time. He gritted his teeth, torn for a moment before ignoring and acknowledging her, regardless of the consequences – but then glanced back again.

 

<PLUS WE’RE DESPERATE>

 

“That’s fine,” the lady answered, and he shifted his attention back to the screen, booking the appointment.

 

“All right, we’ll see you at nine on Saturday morning,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even and calm. After the lady gave him a cursory thank you, he set the received back down carefully, then spun around as quickly as possible.

 

“My salon is not a dating service,” he snapped, pointing a finger down at her accusingly.

 

Natasha shrugged her shoulders, looking up at him in a way that for once appeared genuine.

 

“It’s true either way,” she said, and he frowned, unsure which statement she was talking about. Probably both. “It’s either him, or the girl who got fired from Whole Foods.”

 

He considered this, the tension in his shoulders fading. By all rights, he should refuse to hire the guy based solely on the plans Natasha clearly had for him. She didn’t let go of these things easily.

 

But then, on the other hand – she did have a point. They needed someone – at least to get them through the holidays.

 

“Fine,” he said, making sure to stress the resignation in his voice. “Schedule him an interview.”

 

He watched, a little resentful, as a wide smirk bloomed across her face. She opened her mouth to say something (something self-satisfying, no doubt), but was stopped by the soft jingle of the bells on the front door.

 

Bucky grabbed his smock from the wall, throwing it over his shoulders. First dog of the day.

 

“Yes, sir,” Nat said instead, her smile stubbornly refusing to fade even as he walked out of the office and into their small lobby.

 

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

 

Bucky had a very straightforward interview process.

 

He leaned back in the office chair, letting some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders and lower back. It had been a fairly rough day – not the worst he’d had by any means, but fairly rough. Two Goldens and and a bichon in the morning, followed by a delicious lunch of Fritos and a Snickers bar (he’d been running twenty minutes behind, which left him ten minutes to eat) and then a wire-haired griffon paired with a matted shih tzu – and now here he was, waiting for their potential future bather to show up.

 

His name was Steve, and he had very readable handwriting. Usually, Bucky would have the application laid out neatly on the desk in case he wanted to reference it during the interview, but Nat, in her infinite maturity, had drawn hearts around his name in red ink. It was hidden in the drawer instead.

 

He heard a soft whimper at his side, and he leaned down, rubbing the head of the dog at his feet. She was a beautiful pittie-mastiff mix, inheriting all the height of the latter combined with the muscular chest and jaws of the first. In short, she was massive (and adorable, in his opinion).

 

He borrowed her from one of his regular customers, Bruce, for every interview he conducted now. One hour in exchange for a free bath (and a few treats).

 

She grunted happily as he rubbed her cropped ears, collar jingling around her thick neck. He loved that collar – a thick, black leather band topped with bright purple metallic spikes. It suited her.

 

He glanced up at the jingle of the front door opening, then listened as – yep, a soft, questioning male voice was introducing himself to Sam, stating that he was here for an interview.

 

“Showtime,” he whispered to the dog, grinning as her tail thumped a little harder against the floor.

 

He listened as Sam directed the guy – Steve, he reminded himself – into his office, straightening up as the doorknob began to turn. He’d made sure to make himself appear at least somewhat boss-like and presentable - which was challenging, sometimes, when your uniform was an oversize, water-resistant smock and you went home with dog hair caked on your socks.

 

The door opened, and his interviewee slipped inside. Nat had been right – he was ‘on the shorter side’. And slightly built – his skinny jeans showed that much, even if most of his body was hidden under a bulky winter coat.

 

He looked up with a shy smile, his cheeks flushed red from the cold. Bucky swallowed stiffly – behind his thick-rimmed black glasses, he had light eyes, and blond hair that was short but still tousled from the wind, shaved on the sides of his head. And his cheekbones –

 

Stop it, his mind hissed internally. Bucky forced himself to smile back in what he hoped was a very professional way.

 

“You must be Steve?” he asked, standing. Steve nodded, his cheeks reddening a little further. Or maybe Bucky was just imagining that.

 

“Nice to meet you,” the blond said, reaching out and taking his hand in a brief, firm shake. “I spoke with Natasha earlier, she said your name was –“

 

“Bucky, yeah,” he said, running his hand back through his hair was soon as it was released. “It’s a weird name, I know, but everyone calls me that. Uh, feel free to take your coat off.”

 

He gestured toward the row of hooks that lined one wall of the office.

 

“Thanks,” Steve said, reaching up to begin twisting off his red scarf. Bucky sat back down stiffly in his chair, trying not to stare as Steve shrugged out of his oversize coat. As he pulled his arms free, his eyes caught sight of something else Nat had mentioned – richly colored tattoos curling around his left forearm, disappearing up under his sweater, which had gotten rucked up above his wrist.

 

He was too far away to see the details of the design, and he had a sudden pang of curiosity. Unfortunately, that would not make for a very professional first interview question.

 

Once Steve had hung up his coat, he turned back to him, but didn’t take a seat right away in the chair on the other side of the desk. Instead, his eyes drifted from Bucky to the dog sitting silently next to him, mouth panting open in contentment.

 

“Awe,” he said, a smile – far less apprehensive than the one he’d given Bucky as he walked into the office – blooming on his face. “Is this your dog?”

 

With Steve’s eyes on her, the dog’s tailed thumped a little harder on the floor. Bucky couldn’t help starting to smile, too – even though he liked to remain serious for at least the first part of the interview. He knew he could look intimidating, if he wanted to.

 

“A friend of mine’s,” he said, leaning down again to rub at her ears. “Her name’s Jennifer.”

 

“Jennifer?” Steve repeated, but a little absently, because he was already taking a step forward and leaning down toward her. “I like that. When dogs have people names, I mean.”

 

“Me too,” Bucky agreed, his eyes shifting between Steve and Jennifer, then lingering carefully on the relaxed expression on Steve’s face. “I’ve met enough Sweeties and Cutie Pies to last me the rest of my life, trust me.”

 

“Can I pet her?” Steve asked, looking up briefly to meet Bucky’s eyes again. Blue eyes, definitely blue –

 

Stop, his mind snapped again. Don’t prove Nat right.

 

“Sure,” he said, glancing down toward Jennifer. “She’s friendly.”

 

He watched as Steve immediately bent down on one knee, reaching out his hand in a loose fist. Jennifer stood, leaning toward him to give it a few careful, dignified sniffs.

 

Then she launched forward, jumping up with a happy yelp and immediately knocking Steve on his ass.

 

Bucky stood up, alarmed, to look over his desk, poised to step in and pull her off – but Steve was laughing. A light, genuine laughter that pulled at his gut, and couldn’t even begin to rival the bright, unguarded smile on the smaller man’s face.

 

Fuck, his mind whispered in a daze. He should’ve felt happy, because Steve had passed his biggest test – Jennifer – with flying fucking colors. He’d even let her sniff his hand first before diving in to pet her.

 

But that meant he was hired. Which meant Bucky would be seeing him at work almost every day. Which meant seeing that smile almost every day. And they wore short sleeved smocks, so that meant he was also going to see –

 

Fuck, his mind sighed again. Just – fuck.

 

He really needed to practice his ‘I’m a professional’ boss face.


	2. Golden Retriever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to continue this, I guess - I have to admit, it's fun to write something a little lighthearted. I'm curious to see how long that will last before I turn this into a sappy puddle of angst (my specialty, I think - I just can't help it).

“So?” Nat asked, passing another chopstick-full of noodles through her cherry lips.

 

Bucky swallowed, taking an unnecessary amount of time chewing his current bite just to spite her. He pulled a spreadsheet toward himself, glancing down at the sea of numbers in an attempt to look busy.

 

“So what?” he answered absently.

 

“So how did it go?” she clarified, smiling a little as she lifted another bite to her mouth. He tried not to visibly flinch at the sing-song quality of her voice.

 

“How did what go?” he innocently asked back. He fished another stem of broccoli out of the paper carton. Broccoli took a long time to chew.

 

“How was the interview?” she questioned. He spared a brief glance up at her; her smirk hadn’t faded.

 

Chew, chew, chew – chew – swallow.

 

“Good, obviously,” he said, pushing at the spreadsheet with his finger. He wasn’t even sure what it was. “Since I hired him.”

 

A loaded silence settled between them, during which Nat continued to eye him in triumph, lifting another dainty bite of noodles to her lips, and he sourly contemplated how bad he was at putting anything past her.

 

“I told you he’d be good,” she said, licking a little sauce off her upper lip. “I knew it from the moment I first laid eyes on him.”

 

The truth was that the interview had gone downhill a little, once Steve had pulled himself up off the floor and Bucky had managed to get Jennifer to settle down next to him again.

 

The way he’d treated Jennifer, quite possibly the most intimidating pitbull mix Bucky had ever seen, meant he had all but sealed the deal. But Steve didn’t know that, so Bucky pressed forward with a few boring ‘serious interview’ questions.

 

“Can you describe a time when you provided excellent customer service?” he’d asked, leaning forward intently.

 

Steve had frowned, letting his eyes drift a little aimlessly around the room before he sheepishly brought a hand to the back of his head.

 

“I usually help Mrs. McCauley carry her groceries up the stairs every week,” he’d replied hesitantly. “But that’s not – I mean, she’s not a customer, exactly.”

 

Under normal circumstances, Bucky might’ve pressed for more – asked Steve to think of a time when he provided exceptional customer service in a workplace environment, not in his apartment building on his own free time. But his sweater had ridden up when he’d lifted his arm over his head, revealing a smooth, pale strip of flesh that Bucky was definitely not meant to see, so he’d cursed himself and looked away and forgotten about pressing the question.

 

Which was a shame, because the interview set the tone for their workplace relationship. And Bucky wanted to be taken seriously – by someone, at least, since his salon manager had long since learned to walk all over him, and he and Sam were more longtime buddies than anything else.

 

“All right,” he’d said, when Steve had lowered his arm again and eliminated the distraction. “Can you tell me how you resolved the last conflict you had with a co-worker?”

 

Steve had gone pale then, stiffening in his seat before he began grasping for a decent answer.

 

“Well,” he’d said, swallowing hard, and Bucky had definitely been listening intently, not watching the slow way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “I usually get along well my co-workers. I don’t like to gossip, or anything like that. Not a fan of drama.”

 

It was an evasive answer – Bucky knew it was, but then, his ending statement had satisfied him a bit. They worked elbow-to-elbow in his little salon, and any ‘drama’ that presented itself didn’t simmer long beneath the surface. He was no fan of drama himself.

 

“That’s good,” he’d said agreeably, resisting the urge to say more – to emphatically agree, for example, and launch into a story about how a few bathers back, one of them had casually mentioned to a customer that Nat had been “kinda, you know, a little mean” to the hot mess of a Maltese that had spent the last two hours trying to bite her face off, and Nat had –

 

No. Probably not the best story to relate to a new employee.

 

“All right,” he’d said, settling back into his twirly office chair in a fake display of casualness. “Last question – how did you handle your last confrontation with an angry customer?”

 

If the previous question had seemed to throw him, this one made his cheeks burn a brilliant shade of red.

 

He’d stammered through another vague, decent-sounding answer – something about respect for everyone – but Bucky hadn’t caught most of it, distracted by the realization that Steve – apparently, at least, judging by the way the blush hardly faded where it disappeared under the collar of his sweater – was a full body blusher.

 

At which point Bucky had internally chastised himself – again - for treating the interview like a very one-sided date and mentally kicked himself in the ass, by which time Steve was sitting awkwardly across from him in his chair, waiting for a response.

 

He’d thanked him, then – they’d both stood a little awkwardly, Bucky offering his hand again and Steve taking it, Bucky making sure to keep it brief, not let his touch linger unnecessarily, because he was pretty sure his hand was sweating –

 

And he’d had to suffer through Steve shrugging his coat on again and twisting his scarf around his bare throat, thanking Bucky a second time before nodding politely and letting himself out.

 

And then – he’d taken a deep breath, leaning down to pet Jennifer, who had all but fallen asleep during their exchange. No, he hadn’t answered his follow up questions perfectly, but –

 

He’d passed the scary pitbull test, so he had to give him a chance. Never mind that Bucky doubted he could lift a wet Border Collie out of the tub, he had good character, and he was comfortable around dogs.

 

Bucky was definitely not just thinking with his dick.

 

“Right?” he asked Jennifer, rubbing her ears softly. She looked up at him with sleepy eyes, but didn’t answer.

 

Still – the nervous way he’d answered that last question –

 

He’d pulled out Steve’s application, looking up the information for his last place of employment. It was a local bar, where Steve had evidently started as a barback.

 

When, Bucky couldn’t tell, because the start date was left blank. Along with the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ checkboxes for the question ‘May we contact your previous employer for a reference?’.

 

Weird, he thought, pushing away the thought that if it weren’t for Jennifer, and if it weren’t for – never mind, if it weren’t for Jennifer, that he wouldn’t even be considering this guy.

 

He called the bar, leaving a very polite voicemail asking for a reference regarding one Steve Rogers. Because he was a responsible business owner, and that was what responsible business owners did when they hired people.

 

And by then, he was running out of time to bathe Jennifer. So he’d hauled his ass out of his chair and walked her to the back, setting aside her leather leash and collar in a safely dry area before tethering her to the wall inside their bathing bunker.

 

He tried not to let his mind wander as he turned on the hose, his thumb curving into the spray to test the temperature as the water warmed up. He knew what it would wander to if he did.

 

“I’m being an idiot,” he whispered to Jennifer, turning the water over the top of her head and letting it slowly flow over her ears and jaw and muzzle. Sam was on the other side of the wall, after all, and he tried to limit his conversations with dogs to less personal topics when he wasn’t alone. “I’d be his boss. It’s not like I could ask him out, anyway. Even if Nat was right and I did happen to find him a little attractive.”

 

Jennifer shook out her ears, and he dodged the spray, turning off the water and reaching out for the bottle of face wash nearby.

 

“Don’t you dare tell her that,” he added, soaping up her face gently, careful not to smear any suds into her eyes. She took it all gamely, even yawning as he pulled back to grab the hose again. “I’m not ready for a relationship, anyway. Nat is just so – goddamn pushy, is all.”

 

He rinsed off her face, then moved to soak down her whole body. He sighed, feeling resignation fall over him like a wet blanket. He’d been telling himself that for years, and it never seemed to feel any less true.

 

A few casual encounters here and there, yes. He was human. But it seemed like an awful lot of effort, to have to deal with a real live person, when there was an Internet with free porn and he had two very functional hands.

 

And once again, it didn’t matter anyway, when it came to Steve Rogers. As his boss, he was no more likely to date him than he was to hook up with him –

 

“Help me, Jennifer,” he sighed, reaching for a bottle of tangerine shampoo. “I’ll get past this, right? I’ll get used to him being around and I’ll get over it.”

 

Jennifer looked up at him, the picture of soaking wet obviousness, and he sighed. He was about to pump the shampoo into his hand when he froze, sensing a faint buzz in the oversize pocket of his smock.

 

“Always in the middle of a fuckin’ bath,” he mumbled to himself, reaching down inside it. He felt through a slip leash, his earplug case, the crumpled bills of his tips for the day – and then, finally, his fingers curled around his phone.

 

He blew a wad of white fur off the screen, answering the call, rerouted from the salon to his cell.

 

“Wet Dog Grooming, this is James speaking,” he said loudly.

 

“James? This is –“

 

And, naturally, Jennifer chose this exact moment for an aptly timed, full body shake.

 

Bucky winced, taking a few quick steps back and twisting around, avoiding a good portion of the spray. The guy on the phone continued talking in his ear, something about a bar, always calling in sick, something about female patrons loving him but –

 

“Shit,” Bucky whispered, shaking off the dripping forearm that been closest to the dog. He reached out blindly for a towel, trying to listen.

 

Something about starting fights. That piqued his interest, and he pressed the phone as close to his ear as he could with his shoulder, drying off his arm.

 

“He picks fights?” he asked, frowning down at Jennifer. She looked back up at him curiously, tilting her head to the side.

 

“With half my regulars, yeah,” the guy answered, apparently obvious to Bucky’s struggle to remain dry. “There was no question of letting him go. Remind him that he’s lucky no one pressed assault charges, and he’d better not show up again.”

 

The line went dead. Bucky blinked, lowering the phone from his ear to his hand so he could blink dumbly at it some more.

 

“Doesn’t seem like the same guy,” he said, half to himself, half to Jennifer. She whined, and for a moment, he thought it might be in agreement – but then he realized she was standing there, soaking wet and starting to shiver.

 

“Oh, shit, sorry girl,” he said, pumping shampoo quickly into his hand.

 

That was definitely not a very good reference. If he ever lost his temper with a dog -

 

But then, Jennifer – he winced, rubbing the slick liquid into her fur. He’d been so goddamn good with Jennifer. She usually scared away the bathers destined to suck, and even the better ones had barely been brave enough to pat her on the head.

 

And then those tattoos –

 

No, no, forget the tattoos, he hissed to himself, massaging the shampoo along Jennifer’s back. Her tail swung happily from side to side, occasionally smacking the cement wall. The tattoos are not relevant –

 

He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. Best not to overthink things.

 

Not when he knew he was just going to hire the guy anyway.

 

 

 

\--- --- --- --- ---

 

 

 

“Bucky.”

 

He hummed a little to himself, grasping a piece of chicken between his chopsticks. He was such shit at making practical business decisions. But that was why he had –

 

“What?” he asked, raising his eyes to look at Nat. Her smirk had broadened.

 

“Whatcha daydreamin’ about?” she asked teasingly.

 

She was indispensible. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hate her sometimes.

 

“Nothing,” he answered, a little startled. “I was just – recalling – the interview.”

 

“Recalling,” she repeated, her voice a low purr. “You always use such big words when you’re lying.”

 

“I’m not lying,” he replied stiffly. His chopsticks were already scrapping the bottom of the paper carton, and he frowned. This meant both that lunch was almost over – although he shouldn’t complain, because it was an amazing thing when he actually managed to have a lunch sitting down – and that he was running out of things to shove into his mouth in lieu of answering her questions.

 

“Evading, then,” she said, setting her own empty carton on the desk. “So what do you think?”

 

“What do I think about what?” he asked. She smiled, picking up a fortune cookie.

 

“What I just said,” she continued, ripping open the thin plastic. “I think you should train him.”

 

He stiffened up at that, but then, realizing how likely she was to make note of any kind of adverse reaction, he reached out for a fortune cookie too, just to cover himself.

 

“I was thinking you should train him,” he said, trying, and failing, to keep the objection out of his voice. “That is what I pay you for, after all, isn’t it?”

 

He watched as Nat deftly cracked open her cookie, picking out the little slip of paper inside before answering.

 

“Oh, Bucky,” she sighed, shrugging her shoulders dramatically. “I just don’t know. I can’t see how I can take on more responsibility at work, what with the baby –“

 

He snorted, cracking open his own cookie a little harder than he meant to in the process.

 

“Oh please,” he said, scooping the shattered pieces into his hand. “Don’t give me that. You could easily run this fuckin’ place with a baby on each hip.”

 

He threw a few cookie pieces into his mouth, ignoring the treacherous look she shot his way.

 

“I’m sorry,” she began icily. “I forget how intimately familiar you are with the burden of raising two little human beings, Mr. I-work-in-the-pet-industry-but-I’m-too-busy-to-get-a-dog –“

 

“You have Clint,” he offered, chewing the cookie pieces down into an unsatisfying, glue-like sweetness.

 

“And I’m blessed that he’s happy to be a stay-at-home Dad until the kids are old enough for school,” she snapped back immediately. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally want to spend time with them myself.”

 

Bucky sighed, picking up his unread fortune and rolling it between his thumb and finger.

 

“You know I’m willing to do whatever I can to accommodate your schedule,” he said, firming up his voice enough to communicate that he was serious. “But we both know that’s not the issue here.”

 

“Oh no?” she countered. But her voice was light, teasing again.

 

“You realize,” he began, because if they were really going down the path that was hiring Steve Rogers, he’d need to lay down the law eventually, “That nothing is going to come of this, right? Nothing. Because I can’t date my own employee.”

 

“Can’t – or won’t, due to vague and easily dismissible moral reasons?” Nat questioned, her smirk quirking up a bit. She never seemed to be able to keep a straight face when he tried to be firm about something.

 

“Can’t,” he hissed, closing his eyes briefly in irritation. “Haven’t you heard of a little thing called – oh, what was it again – sexual harassment? It’s been a good year, but that doesn’t mean one suit wouldn’t put us out of business. Then you’d have to explain to your stay-at-home husband and mini humans why you’re living on the street –“

 

“Oh God, such drama,” Nat sighed, rolling her eyes. “I doubt he’d sue.”

 

“We literally know nothing about him,” he snapped back. “I’m not taking any chances.”

 

“So don’t hire him then, if being attracted to him is such a liability,” she said, with a huff of resignation.

 

“Well,” he said, stammering a bit at that very sensible suggestion. “It’s not – well, you were right before, when you said that we were desper – Jesus Christ, why are you smiling like that?”

 

Nat shifted her weight on her feet, looking suspiciously like she was about to break into some kind of mocking happy dance.

 

“You didn’t deny it,” she said, pointing at him and letting her grin grow wider.

 

“Deny wh –“ he began, his voice falling away as he remembered her words. Her grin broke into all out laughter. “God, are we in fuckin’ high school here? You’ve got kids, I’m almost thirty –“

 

“You’re twenty eight, that’s not ‘almost thirty,’” she said, pouting at him briefly before bending over in laughter again. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry –“

 

“You’ve never been sorry a damn day in your life,” he muttered, falling back into his office chair with a (very dramatic, he had to admit) thud.

 

“But seriously,” Nat finished, finally seizing control of herself. “I do everything around here. Scheduling, payroll, I vetted the applications – is it really too much to ask for you to train the guy?”

 

Bucky resisted the urge to sigh. It never ceased to annoy him, how difficult it was to argue with her when she was really hell bent on something.

 

“I suppose I could,” he started, swallowing down his impulse to argue further.

 

“Great,” she quipped immediately. “Because I already rearranged next week’s schedule so that your shifts overlap. Oh, and I blocked out some extra time for a staff lunch on his first day – I thought that would be a nice gesture, you know, have a chance to get to know him a little –“

 

Her voice was drifting again toward the suggestive, and he quickly nodded his agreement before she could go on.

 

“All right, fine,” he said sourly. “Team-building lunch, great idea, this is the kind of shit I pay you to come up with. What does your fortune say?”

 

He was more than ready to change the subject, not to mention put off the implications of what he’d just agreed to.

 

“It says,” she began, unfurling the little slip of paper, nearly forgotten on his desk. “Oh, Bucky, listen to this – ‘YOUR EFFORTS WILL BEAR FRUIT’.”

 

She shot him a wicked grin, and he returned it sarcastically.

 

“It doesn’t necessarily refer to your latest efforts,” he drolled. Unsoliciated efforts, he supplemented in his mind. “It’s probably a reference to your kids or something.”

 

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head slowly.

 

“Bucky, Bucky,” she said. “Mind always in the gutter, even when it comes to reading perfectly innocent fortune cookie fortunes. What about yours, hmm?”

 

He glanced down at the little paper he’d been playing with absently, unrolling it carefully.

 

‘YOUR NEXT DECISION WILL HAVE UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES.’

 

He frowned at the words, twisting the little paper into a ball and tossing it into his empty food carton.

 

“Could you be any more fuckin’ vague?” he asked, more to the discarded fortune than Natasha. Still, she answered.

 

“That bad?” she asked sweetly. “Let me guess – ‘A HANDSOME STRANGER –‘”

 

“Oh, would you look at that,” Bucky said, cutting her off to thrust his finger toward the clock. “Lunchtime is over. Time to get back to work!”

 

“Mm, what about,” Nat continued, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as she considered. ‘WHEN YOUR HEAD IS PULLED OUT OF YOUR ASS, YOU WILL FIND THAT –‘”

 

“Enough, Jesus, you have a Goldendoodle in five minutes,” he snapped, waving her off. “There has to be a better use for your freedom. Snapchat your hubby or something. Eat another damn cookie.”

 

“Awe,” she said, with a smile and a tilt of her head. “Always looking out for his employees. Such a caring, considerate –“

 

He gave her the middle finger, quickly clearing his desk of the dirty paper cartons and discarded wrappers. He heard her chuckle warmly, the sharp click of her heels receding as she let herself out of the office.

 

Two weeks, maybe three. That was how long it would take for her to drop this. There was no way she could keep it up forever, especially with the epic hell that was the holiday season looming before them.

 

He pulled up the schedule, scanning the days until he found Steve Rogers’ name for the first time. Unlike his application, she’d left it blissfully unmolested – no hearts and winky faces surrounding his name.

 

He sighed with a huff of relief – she was very capable of being professional, at least when it came to something other than, well, him.

 

It was next Monday. A slow day – good. Nat knew better than to schedule a new hire to train on the weekend.

 

And the first dog he was scheduled with –

 

Bucky grinned a little to himself. A Golden Retriever.

 

He didn’t like to stereotype, but – they tended to be friendly and sweet, not dopey like Labs or hyper like Huskies. A good chance of black nails, that was unfortunate, but also a decent amount of fur to brush, and they were unlikely to come in as hot matted messes –

 

Hard to beat for a first dog.

 

Hopefully. As Bucky had long since learned, every dog was a different animal, and you couldn’t count on anything to go smoothly. It was a belief strangely in line with what he expected from people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments are much appreciated!


	3. Dachschund

He slid the key into the front door, muttering a litany of very inappropriate words as he jiggled it in the lock, awkwardly balancing his brown paper bag of takeout between his elbow and shoulder. Finally, it swung open.

He stepped inside, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force. Nothing in his apartment was broken, per se. Merely – compromised, failing to function in the most annoying of ways. The lock you had to jiggle (which became a fifteen minute adventure when he was drunk). The shower head with such shitty water pressure he was sometimes tempted to wash his hair in the kitchen sink. The A/C unit that dripped on the hardwood floors and had all the subtly of a jet engine.

He didn’t regret funneling all the profits of the salon back into the business. It was the right thing to do, the responsible thing, as an owner. There were just times when he hated realizing that he was pushing thirty and daydreaming about washing machines.

The nice ones. The front loading kind. 

“Yo, Scotch,” he said, reaching down as he passed the couch. His cat had barely bothered to look up at his arrival, still lolling happily on the top cushion, legs outstretched. Still, he made a meow-like grunt of approval when Bucky scratched his ears.

His name had been Butterscotch at the shelter. An obvious choice, given his rich orange and white fur. Bucky had shortened the name to honor the time in his life, not all that long ago, when he had preferred alcohol to animals.

He threw the bag on the island of his kitchen with a thud, unloading the contents. Pad thai and a six pack.

He leaned against the counter, not bothering to grab a plate. Just one more thing to wash later.

“Don’t judge me,” he said to the cat, stabbing a fork directly into the carton. 

Butterscotch flinched his ears back briefly at his negative tone, blinking heavily before lowering his head to the sofa.

He’d told Nat once (probably when he was tipsy – he rarely volunteered personal information when he was sober, even now) that his ideal boyfriend would love takeout, because he sure as hell couldn’t cook.

‘Why not find someone who would cook for you, then?’ she’d asked, raising a martini to her lips. Yep, they’d been drinking. ‘A chef or something.’

‘Nope,’ he’d said, leaning back dangerously far on the bar stool. ‘I want someone on my level. Not someone who’d start to resent me for never cooking.’

‘Some people enjoy taking care of their significant others, you know,’ she’d said, in that blithe, matter-of-fact way she had whenever they started in on a conversation they’d had a thousand times. ‘Not everyone would resent you for having a different skill set.’

‘Wouldn’t be fair,’ he’d said. ‘They do all the cooking and I do nothing? Not very, uhm, what’s the word –‘

He’d fumbled over it, his tongue tripping on the ‘q’. How many drinks had he had at that point? Three? Four?

‘Equitable,’ Nat supplied for him.

She never got drunk, it seemed. One of these days he’d corner that husband of hers and drill him for stories. No one could be that consistently composed.

‘That,’ he’d agreed. ‘Wouldn’t be equi – equi – fair.’

‘You could make it up in other ways,’ she suggested, biting daintily into her olive.

‘By what, doing the dishes?’ he asked. Then he scowled, watching as she waggled her eyebrows suggestively behind her glass.

‘Pervert,’ he’d said, and ordered another beer.

He blinked, returning from his memory to stare blankly around his shabby kitchen.

Part of him knew why he kept the apartment. He liked to blame it on money, on complacency, on how much work it was to move, but really, it felt like home. It was a lot like him, really. Functional, nothing broken outright. Something you settled for - not something you daydreamed about having.

He didn’t want to be the reason anyone settled.

He straightened up, shoving another bite of pad thai in his face. It had become an almost automatic response. Self-deprecating thought? Find a distraction, stat.

It was healthy. Kinda.

He drifted over to his couch, setting his food on the coffee table and reaching back to pull Butterscotch down into his lap. He yelped, claws digging into the fabric.

“What, you don’t wanna cuddle with me?” he asked sourly, lifting him down as he relaxed in his hands, releasing his claws. “Remember that one time I went to the animal shelter and saved your life, huh?”

He set him squarely over his lap. Butterscotch stood immediately, walking off his lap – only to curl against his left thigh, curved back pressed into him.

“Close enough, I guess,” he said, rubbing his ears briefly before turning his attention back to his takeout.

Steve Rogers probably hated spicy food.

He nearly froze as the thought popped into his mind, the conscious part of it immediately snapping to life in an attempt to push it away. 

It had been about a week since he’d hired him. In the interim between the interview and his upcoming first day, things had returned to their chaotic standard of normal. Even Nat had all but stopped dropping her vague, sexually suggestive comments in his absence.

He shouldn’t be thinking about him. He didn’t know anything about him. Not really.

Which was why, evidently, his mind was pulling double time – filling the gaps in his knowledge with guesses that also served as reasons why he should give up his – whatever it was. Nagging fascination? Reasons that went beyond the whole not-being-sued-for-sexual-harassment thing.

He was an artist, and Bucky wasn’t the most creative guy. That was a dealbreaker right there. He couldn’t fake coming up with pretentious opinions on art when the most he knew about Van Gogh was the ear thing.

And he was younger, definitely younger than Bucky. He probably wanted to have fun, date someone his own age who was still filled with ambition and hope and naivety and didn’t congratulate themselves on making it through a ride on a crowded subway car at rush hour without having a panic attack. 

And, the key assumption: he was probably straight. And if he wasn’t, he was probably seeing someone. (He had to be; why the hell would someone who looked like that be single?) And if by some miracle he wasn’t, Bucky probably wasn’t his type.

So he should probably stop.

He flicked on the TV, frowning as he skipped through the guide. Nothing was on except ‘House Hunters,’ the insanely boring show that he hated but somehow always ended up watching when there was nothing on. In it, couples shopped for their dream home, choosing between three options. 

Why would anyone want to watch other people get something they wanted but couldn’t have? 

Steve Rogers probably loved ‘House Hunters’. 

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

It was a regular Monday. Nothing unusual about it. Definitely no reason to overthink things.

It didn’t matter that he’d felt the need to undo and retie his bun a few times, until it kind of looked like he hadn’t just shoved a comb through his hair and threw it up (which was exactly what he did every morning). 

He just didn’t want to look like a slob on that particular morning. No reason to read into it.

He felt normal, as he walked in the salon door, sipping his coffee and hoping to look entirely nonchalant.

He caught Sam’s eye as he turned toward the office door, pausing when he realized the other man was staring at him from his table. He was giving him a confused frown, slowly lowering his shears. The dog on the table – a Maltese, from the look of it, stared too, its long, silky tail waving as Bucky met its eyes.

“What?” he asked, taking another long sip.

“Nothing,” Sam said, shaking his head slightly. “It’s just – you know you’re like, twenty minutes early, right?”

“Oh,” Bucky said lowly, glancing at the clock and hoping he looked surprised. “Am I? Huh. Well, I – I get here early sometimes.”

“Sure you do,” Sam said, grinning as he turned back to his dog.

He made to turn toward the office again, but at that moment the door separating the salon floor from the back room, with its kennels and bathing bunker, swung open.

Nat emerged, stopping as soon as she saw him.

“What happened?” she asked, a slow smile blooming across her face, too. “Did you lose your phone? You shouldn’t be here for another half an hour.”

Bucky frowned, taking another long, long sip just to hide his face behind the cup. He should start showing up early every day, just to spite them. 

“You guys suck,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But I might forgive you, Nat, if you walk over here with that thing.”

He gestured to the bundle in Nat’s arms, a damp towel encircling a tiny black-and-brown ball of fluff.

“Oh, what, this thing?” she said, cradling him a little closer to her chest. She walked to the counter, and Bucky approached from the other side, setting down his coffee cup. He never could resist a puppy.

He half-smiled as Nat stepped up to him, leaning down to get a closer look at it.

“He is cute, I have to admit,” she said as the puppy blinked sleepily out at him. “Almost as cute as my own baby. He was falling asleep in the bath.”

“Cute is an understatement,” he said, reaching out to gently rub his fingers into the puppy’s damp fur. 

It yawned, opening and closing its mouth with a tiny squeak. Bucky tried not to look too melted by it.

“Maybe we should reconsider the whole bather thing,” Nat said, hugging the bundle a little closer to her. “He’ll get all the puppies.”

“True,” Bucky murmured, a little mesmerized, still, by the tiny creature. It was hard to tell when they were so young, but he guessed it was a Yorkie. It couldn’t have been more than three months old. “You’ll be grateful the next time we get a walk-in Mastiff, though.”

“Good point,” she said, looking up from the puppy as her face settled back into the unreadable, serious expression she usually wore. “Speaking of which – your Golden dropped off early.”

“Really? Shit,” Bucky said, frowning. “I wanted to train Steve on how to check dogs in.”

It never ceased to amaze him how flexible some people were with their appointment times. Do you show up an hour early for your dentist appointment? No. And yet they dropped off their dogs like they were mailing a letter. Just another errand to cross off the list at some point that morning. The exact time didn’t really matter, as long as the post office was open.

“Yeah,” Nat said, her expression darkening. “It’s actually a little worse than that.”

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

In retrospect, Bucky should’ve seen it coming. Seeing as this happened every. single. time. counting on a dog hinged on anything even remotely important.

First of all, it wasn’t a Golden. It was a Golden-Dachshund mix that looked oddly what you would expect a Golden-Dachshund mix to look like, with long, burnt orange fur and short legs. Sort of like a long-haired, floppy-eared Corgi.

But that wasn’t the problem.

She was terrified. The owners, according to Nat, had been almost as nervous as the dog, explaining that she was a rescue and was typically shy and this was her first time, as far as they knew, in a grooming salon. They’d even dropped off a muzzle with her, just in case.

Bucky took in a deep, grounding breath as he stared at her in the kennel. She was pressed into the corner, ears held back, eyes wide and unblinking as he looked her over.

Shit.

He walked back out onto the salon floor, startled to see that Steve had shown up while he was in the back, checking to see if the situation was really as questionable as Nat had suggested. He was standing next to her table, shrugging on a black smock.

“Bucky!” she said, turning as she heard the door swing open. “Steve’s here. Look, he’s my size.”

Steve looked down at that, his cheeks flaring pink. But it was true – Nat’s extra smock fit him well, at least as well as you could expect a smock to fit. It wasn’t tight, but didn’t balloon around him, either.

It was actually slightly snug, he realized, as he trailed his eyes over –

He shot them back up again, forcing himself to give Steve a calm, welcoming smile.

“Hey,” he said, hoping his voice matched his expression. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said back, briefly meeting Bucky’s eyes. 

“I was just telling him that this little guy’s already had a bath,” Nat said, lifting the bundled-up puppy in her arms and rocking it gently. “Unfortunately.”

“He’s, ahh,” Steve said, reaching out hesitantly to pet it. His smile widened as it licked excitedly at his fingers, evidently beginning to wake up from its sleepy state a little while earlier. “He’s really, really cute.”

“That he is,” Nat said. Bucky met her eyes, ignoring the way she jerked her head a little to the side when Steve was distracted. Referring to him, and not the puppy in her arms.

And he’d been hoping she might’ve dropped it by now.

“I wish I could say she’s your first dog,” Bucky said, wincing a little. “But – well, uhm – do you wanna just follow me to the back? Ours is already here.”

“Oh, okay, great,” Steve said. He hesitated a little as he stepped away from the puppy, his lip pouting when it whined softly the moment he pulled his hand away.

“Say good luck on your first bath, Steve!” Nat called, snaking her hand into the towel and holding the puppy’s tiny paw. She made it waggle back and forth in a wave.

Bucky made sure to shoot her a bemused look as he walked toward the back. She was never that cutesy. Usually she reserved judgment on the new bathers, offering them help but waiting to see how long they lasted before she considered offering the olive branch of her approval.

But she liked Steve. Or she was going out of her way to demonstrate that she liked Steve. Either way, it was strange.

He didn’t have time to consider that, though, because in a moment he was standing in front of the Golden-Dachshund again, with Steve positioned a little awkwardly behind him.

She hadn’t moved from her earlier position, still cowering in the back corner of the kennel and staring back at them unblinkingly. Bucky licked his lips, pulling a slip leash from the front pocket of his smock as he hesitated over what to say.

“This is Melanie,” he began, finally, turning to face Steve and trying not to show his apprehension too openly.

“She seems pretty scared,” Steve offered, frowning down at the dog. 

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, twisting the leash in his hands. “It’s her first time here. I was hoping your first dog would be a little more – well, predictable, but – you’re going to run into this a lot. We get a lot of anxious dogs, and the best way to handle it is just to go slow, trust your instincts and see how the dog does.”

Steve nodded, clearly focused on his words.

“And if you feel uncomfortable with a dog, and you don’t want to bathe it,” Bucky pressed, leaning down a little closer to him. “That’s your call. You don’t ever have to work with a dog you’re uncomfortable with. You won’t get in trouble for sending it home.”

“Okay,” Steve said, nodding after a moment. Realizing he was getting a little intense, Bucky took a half-step back, trying to make his tone of voice more casual.

“Anyway,” he began again. “With Melanie here, we’re gonna do just what I said. Take it slow, see how it goes. She might warm up to us, or she won’t and we won’t be able to finish her bath. We’ll see.”

“Got it,” Steve said, nodding again. Bucky nodded back, finally turning to the kennel.

He opened the door, lowering his hand, holding the looped slip lease, just inside it.

Melanie stared, wide-eyed, her gaze darting between Bucky’s face and the lease in his hand. Still, she didn’t make a move to lunge forward, and Bucky gradually inched the leash toward her until he could drop it loosely over her head and around her neck.

“So far so good,” he murmured, nearly forgetting, in his focus on the dog, how intently Steve was watching his every move. He opened the kennel door wider, giving the leash a soft tug.

“All right, Melanie,” he said, leaning down and slapping the top of his thighs. “Come on girl, let’s go. Bath time.”

Melanie didn’t move. If anything, she pressed tighter into the corner.

Bucky gave the leash another gentle tug, waiting.

“Come on honey,” he said, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Melanie hesitated, still eying him, her little shoulders shaking slightly – but finally, she stepped forward, following his lead outside of the kennel.

Success, Bucky’s mind whispered, and he couldn’t help but smile a little as he led the dog – and Steve – back toward the salon’s bathing area.

“All right, so,” Bucky said, pausing for a moment in the doorway. “Two tubs – we usually use those for small dogs and tether the big ones to the wall, but if you want to bathe a big dog in a tub you can, as long as you can lift it inside. Towels are over there – ahh – use the basic tangerine shampoo unless they’re paying extra, but we can go over all that later –“

Steve nodded along to him, and Bucky stopped himself, feeling slightly awkward. He was training him, yes, but – it was still weird to have someone’s attention fixed on him so closely.

“Anyway,” he said, turning his gaze down to Melanie. She hadn’t wandered into the bathing area with them – rather, she was at the end of the leash, as far away from Bucky as she could get without choking herself. He sighed, leaning down toward her.

“It’s okay, Melanie,” he said softly. He hesitated, not wanting to try and lift her up into his arms when she was clearly still afraid. “I won’t hurt you, baby. It’s all right.”

Melanie was indifferent to his words, eyes still wide as saucers. He reached out his hand, curling it into a loose fist and lowering it for her to sniff –

He jerked his hand back with a hiss of pain. It had all happened so quickly – Melanie surging forward only to jump away again, straining at the end of her leash. He almost didn’t register what had happened, until he looked at his hand and saw the clear indentations of teeth marks just above his knuckles.

“Oh my God,” Steve said, and he blinked, still staring, dumbfounded, at his hand. “She bit you, are you – are you all right?”

“It’s fine,” he said automatically, shaking his head slightly to clear it. He still felt dazed. “Not even bleeding.”

“Are you sure?” Steve pressed, his voice a little lower, concerned.

“I’m fine,” Bucky repeated. He stared down at Melanie, sighing. “But this clearly isn’t happening. Is it, girl?”

He walked back toward the kennels, relieved when the dog followed with little resistance. When he opened her kennel door, she hopped inside as if she knew it was all over – but still slumped in the farthest corner.

Adrenaline was surging through him, making it hard to think. Not wanting to risk anything, Bucky let her jump inside with the slip leash still around her neck, then turned around to address Steve.

“Can you, ahh, hand me that broom over there?” he asked, voice neutral.

Steve gave him a confused look, frowning, but did as he asked. Bucky angled the long handle down toward the kennel, opening the door a crack and slipping it inside. He used it to carefully nudge the slip leash looser and looser around Melanie’s neck, finally lifting it off over her head. He pulled both the broom handle and the slip leash tangling off it out of the kennel, shutting the door solidly.

He could barely make himself look at Steve. Instead, he found himself going through the motions, walking back out onto the salon floor.

“Hey,” he said, addressing both Nat and Sam. They turned to look his way, immediately sensing from his tone that something was wrong. “Can you call on that Dachshund mix? We’re sending her home.”

“I had a feeling,” Nat murmured. She was still holding the little puppy, her hand pulling it a little tighter to her when it jumped up, squirming and yelping at Bucky’s approach. “Did she –“

Bucky lifted his hand. The skin around the teeth marks was already a tender, brilliant red, raised and beginning to swell. He knew it would leave a nasty bruise.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “Didn’t even break the skin.”

“Still,” Nat said, leaning to examine the wound even as she corralled the puppy in her arms. “Clean it well just in case, and get some ice on it. I’ll call the owner.”

“Not my first bite, Nat,” he clipped, but there was no real spite in it. After a moment, he gave her a wincing half-smile. “But thanks. I will.”

He made his way into the office, going straight for the mini fridge and pulling out a very old bag of frozen corn. He slumped in his office chair, pressing the cold bag to the top of his hand with a sharp intake of breath. He spun around –

And there was Steve, standing in the doorway, hesitating as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to enter. 

Bucky frowned, taking a moment to look him over. His pale eyes, the mysterious tattoos he hadn’t seen up close. He looked strange in the black smock. He hadn’t even had a chance to get used to seeing him in it.

It was probably better that it had worked out this way, he reasoned. Clearly this was karma – Nat had jinxed everything with her dubious intentions. At least there were a few good weeks left before the holiday season. Plenty of time to find someone else.

“Are you really all right?” Steve said from the doorway. The concern in his voice sounded so genuine that Bucky didn’t even bother trying to laugh off his injury.

“Yeah,” he said, peeling back the bag of corn for a moment. The bite was still raised, deep purple blotches just beginning to form around the teeth marks, but the swelling was going down a little. “It’ll be a nasty bruise, but – yeah. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

He frowned, slumping his shoulders as he replaced the bag of corn. Steve was still staring at him, looking like he wanted to say more, but hovering silently in the doorway instead.

This was always awkward. At least he had this opportunity, though – better than the phone call tomorrow where he left a voicemail asking, already knowing the answer, if Steve was coming in for his second day.

“If you’re going to quit,” he said, forcing out the words because this was, after all, unavoidable – “Could you please just return the smock? Those things are like eight dollars wholesale, and if you don’t Nat’ll have to make another order and – yeah. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Steve didn’t say anything. Bucky kept his gaze firm on the bag of corn, almost wishing he would just grab his coat and walk out the door without saying anything else.

Instead, Steve crossed his arms, his frown deepening a moment before he spoke.

“I’m not going to quit,” he said, his voice quiet, but resolute. “I mean – it’s a little intimidating, yeah, but – not every dog is like that. They can’t be, or you wouldn’t have an arm.”

Bucky barked out a laugh before he even realized what Steve was saying. He raised his eyes uncertainly, quirking an eyebrow – not sure if agreeing would help convince Steve to stay or just make him look desperate.

“You’re right,” he said, finally, offering him a hesitant smile. “Most of them aren’t like that.”

“And it’s not her fault, anyway,” Steve continued, uncrossing his arms. “She was just really scared.”

Suddenly it was hard to look at him, at the strangely fitting contrast between the determination in his voice and empathy softening his eyes. He looked back down again, feigning interest in his swollen knuckles.

He bit back the urge to say something stupid. Something like how glad he was that Steve was staying on.

“She was,” he agreed softly. “Not everyone would see it that way. They’d write her off as being aggressive. But most dogs aren’t ‘bad,’ they’re just – misunderstood. Had hard lives, and they weren’t taught a way to be different.”

Now Steve was back to staring at him, only his expression had softened, too – edging back toward a hesitant smile.

Bucky coughed a little, shifting the thawing bag of corn on his hand.

“Anyway,” he started, swallowing. “Maybe Nat can, ahh, show you the computer system or something. I’m just gonna keep this on for a few more minutes. Stop the swelling.”

“No problem,” Steve said, his smile broadening briefly before he nodded. Then he turned, retreating back to the salon floor.

As soon as he was gone, Bucky let his head fall back on the office chair. It was all a little too much to think through at once – his relief that Steve wasn’t quitting, the ebbing adrenaline surge of the dog bite, the amazing fact that Steve had just – understood.

He sighed, trying to let some of the tension in his body bleed out of him. Best just to relax for a moment. Recover, stay calm – he could work through his thoughts later, because in a few minutes he’d have to get back to training.

Training his new employee, Steve Rogers. Who was not quitting. Who would be around him every day –

He sighed a second time, his good hand gripping the bag of corn. Relax, his mind commanded again. No thinking.

And he almost succeeded, until there was a soft knock on the office door. He shot his head back up, blinking as his mouth fell open. He was only half-aware of the frozen corn slipping off the top of his hand and onto the floor.

It was Steve again, grinning and pointing down to the front pocket of his smock.

“He fits inside!” he said excitedly, smiling as he looked down.

He had the puppy. Its head, crooked adorably, was hanging out of the pocket. 

Bucky had no idea what to say as Steve approached him, walking around the desk as the puppy squirmed happily inside his smock.

“His name is Teddy,” Steve explained, lifting him carefully from his pocket with both hands. “Natasha told me it was okay to – I mean, he’s dry and he’s done with his bath now and –“

Under normal circumstances, Bucky might’ve made a sarcastic comment about how creative it was to name a Yorkie puppy ‘Teddy,’ or otherwise done something, anything, to maintain his composure. Now, though, with Steve Rogers rambling in front of him, his mind felt utterly blank.

“Uhh,” Steve continued, his cheeks flushing a little. “I mean – when shitty things happen to you, you kind of wish you had a guy like this around, right? But we actually do. Have a puppy, I mean.”

He reached out, dropping Teddy pointedly into his lap. Dumbfounded, Bucky lifted his good hand, petting him in a daze as Steve continued talking.

“I thought he would cheer you up,” he finished, stepping back.

Bucky rubbed his fingers behind the little puppy’s ears, buying himself a few seconds before he had to grasp desperately for something to say. Teddy walked clumsily on the uneven surface of his lap for a moment, circling a few times before he plopped down, curling himself in a little ball and yawning slowly.

He finally glanced up, trying to meet Steve’s eye – only to see that the other man was staring at the floor, hands stuffed in his smock pockets.

Bucky swallowed, continuing to pet the puppy absently as he stared out at him. He found himself smiling, even though he was pretty sure it wasn’t smart to show how awed he was.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning at the squeak Teddy made before he dropped his head on Bucky’s leg and surrendered to sleep.


	4. Shetland Sheepdog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may not be an update for a minute because I'm going to Japan for two weeks.
> 
> Alone. To a country I've never been before. Where I don't speak the language. Apparently I've become the type of person who does that.
> 
> So if I never update again ...

“Mild or spicy?” the waitress asked, tapping her pen restlessly against the pad of paper in her hand.

“Spicy,” Steve answered. He gave her a brief, hopeful smile, which she ignored, turning instead to Bucky.

“You?” she asked curtly. 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at her pen, tapping a little harder now.

“I’ll take the, ahh,” he said, deliberately drawing out his words as he scanned the menu again. “The – mmm – oh, here, the – the kaeng phet, please?”

The waitress scribbled down the order with a flourish of her pen, frown deepening. She was clearly not amused.

“Mild or spicy?” she asked sourly.

“Very spicy,” he replied, handing her the menu. As she walked away from their booth, he realized Steve was looking his way, shoulders a little slumped.

“Sorry,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The service here kind of sucks, but the food is amazing.”

“No worries,” he said back lightly, bringing a glass of water to his lips.

The truth was that he had been to this restaurant before – many times, actually. It had been like a secret, his hole-in-the-wall, go-to Thai place for years, a place he was pretty sure few had discovered until Steve hesitantly suggested it for their ‘team building’ lunch.

Sam and Nat had been quick to jump on his suggestion, the latter giving him a knowing smirk when Bucky failed to admit that it was one of his favorites. It was just easier, somehow, to pretend he hadn’t heard of it before.

“So,” Sam asked, leaning a little closer to Steve. “What kind of art are you studying? Graphic design? Seems like everyone is hitting on that these days.”

Steve looked down, fiddling with his chopsticks absently for a moment as if considering how to answer.

“I’m actually focusing on, ahh,” he said, breaking them apart suddenly and then glancing down as if he’d startled himself. “More traditional mediums? Charcoal, oil, stuff like that? But you’re right, a lot of people do graphic design. I might end up going in that direction, in the end. It’s, umm – a more practical option.”

Sam nodded emphatically, and Steve took another long sip of his water, apparently relieved he’d gotten all that out.

Bucky blinked, realizing a silence had fallen over the table. It was just a little strange, being so quiet around Sam and Nat. He hadn’t appreciated how comfortable he felt around them until he found himself analyzing his every word in front of Steve.

“What kind of stuff do you draw?” he blurted out, because Nat was being an asshole and staring at him expectantly, deliberately not commenting so that he was forced to say something. Something stupid, evidently.

Steve turned his gaze toward him, and he felt a flicker of panic. He quickly elaborated.

“I mean, not stuff, but – subjects?” he continued. God, he sounded like a moron. “What kind of things do you draw? Or – paint?”

He swallowed painfully, ignoring the amused spark in Nat’s eyes across the table.

“Oh, uhm,” Steve began, as Bucky continued to berade himself. Maybe that was too personal a question for an artist? He had no idea. “Well – I draw people, mostly. I like to sketch street scenes, people just being themselves when they don’t feel like they’re being watched, you know? People interacting. I find that the most challenging. But I want to be competent in as much as I can.”

Bucky found himself nodding stupidly, half unsure how to respond and half simply mesmerized by the answer. Steve seemed uncomfortable with everyone’s eyes on him, but once he started talking – his voice sped up, hinting at a passion he was holding back.

He almost wished Nat and Sam weren’t there, so that he could probe him to say more without cutting the two of them out of the conversation.

“I can see how drawing people would be the hardest,” Sam said, nodding along with Bucky. “I mean, trying to capture someone’s facial expression, the emotion in their eyes or something – that’s – I can’t even imagine.”

Steve half-shrugged, looking down at the empty table.

“But what you guys do is amazing, too,” he offered. He turned toward Nat. “I mean, that poodle you were doing this morning – wow.”

Bucky watched as she smiled a little, clearly pleased. She had a definite talent for sniffing out when someone was lying, especially paying her a false compliment – she must have believed him.

He certainly did. Some of his customers – the nicer ones – made offhand comments about how grooming took talent, but he rarely took their words at face value.

“The Continental?” she asked, as if only vaguely remembering it. “Oh – that was nothing, really. You should see Bucky do a poodle cut. Now that’s impressive.”

Obligingly, Steve’s eyes turned to him, and Bucky forced himself not to glance away – or, worse, give Nat the piercing glare he was dying to send her way.

“I do all right,” he replied, his shoulders stiffening.

“All right?” Nat repeated incredulously. Of course she wasn’t going to drop it that easily. Of course. “You have so many request clients! You’ll see, Steve. He really has a – special touch.”

God, he hated her. Truly hated her.

“Maybe I can watch you work,” Steve suggested, hesitantly. “I mean - the next time you get a poodle.”

He ducked his head, and Bucky wished the food would come already. That way, he could blame the heat in his cheeks on the curry.

“Sure,” he answered stiffly. With Steve looking away, he shot Nat the briefest, dirtiest look he could muster, ignoring the grin that spread across Sam’s face as he caught it. “Why not?”

He eased his face back into a relaxed smile, watching as Steve twisted the paper wrapping of his straw in his hands.

“It is true, though,” he said softly. “You have to be really talented – I mean, all of you. It’s like you do sculpture, except instead of marble or clay you have an animal that’s alive and moving –“

“And trying to bite your hand off, occasionally,” Nat cut in, staring pointedly at Bucky’s hand. He curled it a little toward himself automatically, frowning at the fresh blue and purple bruise just above his knuckles.

“Hand? Try face,” Sam added, wincing at his own unhappy memories.

“Guys, stop,” Bucky said, waving them off. “It’s still his first day.”

“Sorry,” Nat offered, her voice droll and clearly not at all apologetic. “We meant – trying to lick your face off.”

“Or wagging its tail so hard it smacks you in the face while you’re trying to do the dog’s back nails,” Sam quipped, jumping in.

“Really?” Steve said, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Is that really a thing?”

“Oh, just wait,” Nat said, leaning back and smiling herself. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Has he, Bucky?”

He blinked, startled to be drawn into the conversation again. Thankfully, he was saved from coming up with an acceptable response, catching sight of the waitress rounding the corner with their food as soon as he lifted his head.

“Nope,” he said, offering Steve a sudden, spontaneous smile instead.

He barely had time, before the waitress set his food in front of him, to acknowledge the way his stomach dropped pleasantly when the other man smiled back.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“Okay,” Bucky said, looking over the schedule on the computer screen. “Steve’s first dog bath, take two.”

“Is it little, or big?” Steve asked, hovering behind his shoulder. There was the barest amount of trepidation in his voice, hovering just beneath the surface. 

“Neither?” he answered, turning around and leaning back against the counter. “It’s a Sheltie.”

“A what?” Steve asked, frowning. Bucky tried not to acknowledge the way he sucked in his lower lip, worrying it as he waited for a response.

“A Shetland sheepdog,” he clarified, smiling a little at the other man’s still-confused expression.

“It’s like a baby Lassie,” Sam called out from his table, leaning around the front of the Cocker he was working on.

Bucky laughed at that, watching as Steve looked to the side, clearly trying to summon an image of the dog in his mind. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Kind of a mini Collie, you could say? They can be pretty timid, and hopefully it doesn’t come in matted, but otherwise – not a bad first dog.”

Steve hummed as he thought that through, finally nodding.

“Sounds good,” he said, stretching his arms out in front of him. “I hope this one is – ahh – friendlier? Or, well, I shouldn’t say that –“

“Not terrified to be here?” Bucky supplied.

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding his agreement. “That. I’m ready to get my hands on an actual dog. I kinda feel like I’ve been standing around all day, not – working.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Nat said loudly, jumping in from her own table. She made a few quick snips on the top of her Lhasa’s head, just finishing up. “The week before Thanksgiving? You’ll be eating dogs, sleeping dogs –“

“Pulling dog hair out of places I can’t even mention –“ Sam offered, shaking his head. “You’re gonna walk out on the street and every dog is gonna need to sniff you for like ten minutes because you don’t just smell like dog, you smell like twenty different kinds of –“

“I think what they mean to say,” Bucky started, jumping in tersely. “Is that we’re starting you off really slow to train you, but hopefully you’ll be able to take on more dogs soon and then you’ll be a lot busier.”

“At least you don’t have to wear a bra,” Nat said, lifting her dog’s chin and studying its face critically. She paused for a moment, then lifted her shears again. “You wouldn’t believe how much hair –“

The door chimed, the Bucky sighed internally in relief. Once Steve was gone, he was going to have a word with those two about how nice it would be if they could stop constantly listing the reasons their new bather should come to his senses and quit.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Fast forward twenty minutes, and Bucky was leaning over a tub with Steve at his side, looking down at a wary, but tolerant, Sheltie. He frowned a little at her trembling legs, rubbing his hand soothingly behind her ears.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he murmured. He reached up to turn on the water, nearly bumping into Steve in the process. He gave him an embarrassed half-smile, grimacing as soon as he looked away.

Nat and Sam were literally just a few feet away in the next room, but somehow, isolated by the heavy cement walls, the two of them felt weirdly alone. He started talking to break the feeling.

“Check the water temperature before you start wetting down the dog,” he said, jumping back into his best authoritative training voice. “It usually starts out cold in the morning. Not a bad idea to keeping checking it throughout the bath, too, just in case.”

“Okay,” Steve said, nodding his affirmation. He was looking down curiously at the dog, who was shifting her tiny eyes nervously between the two of them.

“You want it a little cooler than you’d like for a shower,” Bucky continued. “Or what a normal person would want for a shower, anyway. I tend to like them burning hot.”

He cursed himself as soon as the words slipped from him. How did he go from training to rambling about how he liked his showers?

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Steve said, almost absently. He reached out, petting the little Sheltie, whose tail began to slowly wag. “I like them really hot, too.”

Bucky swallowed, tightening his grip on the hose. He willed himself not to let his mind elaborate on that thought. Not now, and not later. Ideally, not ever.

“Anyway,” he clipped, a little too quickly. “I usually wash the face first. Not that there’s any special reason for that, I just do, so I don’t forget. We have tearless face wash in this bottle, here.”

He gestured to it, and then carefully began to wet down the Sheltie’s face. She jerked in alarm at first, blinking as Bucky smoothed back the wet hair out of her eyes. He took a pump of the face wash, rubbing it between his hands before spreading it over her face.

“Avoid the eyes, obviously,” he said, lathering soap around the dog’s muzzle before picking up the hose again. He rinsed her face carefully, then turned the spray on the rest of her body.

She was almost completely soaked when she started to make a telltale shift of her shoulders, and Bucky quickly directed the spray of water away from her.

“Take a step ba-“ he started, but not before she shook, her thick fur sending a wide spray into the air next to the tub. Bucky turned to his side automatically, most of the water hitting his forearm, but Steve wasn’t so lucky. He frowned as he looked him over, a gaping wet spot on the front of his smock.

“Yeah,” he said, in a way that he hoped sounded apologetic. “You’ll get better at dodging. But you’re gonna get wet. Really wet. A lot. I hope you’re down for that.”

“I’m sure I can manage,” Steve offered, evidently not all that put off. He did peel his smock away from his chest, though, wincing down at it, and Bucky immediately shifted his eyes back to the dog.

“Okay, so,” he said - a little too loudly. “Use the basic shampoo – I think we went over that – uhm, yeah. Sorry. Not exactly rocket science.”

“It’s all right,” Steve said, shaking off his wet arms before turning to offer him a reassuring smile. “Tell me everything. I wanna make sure I do it right.”

Something in Bucky yielded pleasantly, just a little, at that. He was pretty sure it wasn’t just because that was something the perfect employee would say.

“I just don’t want you to think I’m patronizing you,” he went on, frowning as the words slipped from him. The honesty of what he said felt unfamiliar, and just a little bit wrong – he wouldn’t normally express that kind of self-consciousness in front of a new hire.

“You’re not,” Steve replied easily.

“Okay,” Bucky said back. He straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to focus again on the dog. “Good.”

He spread shampoo thickly over her back, rubbing his hands in wide circles. 

“You wanna make sure you get it all over,” he instructed, working up a lather. “Even on the dog’s paws – those can get nasty. “

He didn’t mention how, once the dog was lathered up, he sometimes liked to massage his hands over the dog’s back, not so much because it got the dog any cleaner, but just because they liked it. It soothed him, to touch them that way, knowing that it helped them to relax. And he loved the way some would look up at him while he did it, eyes bright, tails wagging.

He wanted to see if Steve would figure out that part for himself, eventually.

“Right,” Steve said, and Bucky shifted to the side a little, gesturing him forward.

“Here, give it a try,” he said.

He meant to step back as Steve stepped forward, let him take his place – but instead the other man positioned himself toward the dog’s back end, massaging the shampoo over her lower legs while Bucky rubbed it into her shoulders. He looked down, chest tightening uncomfortably at the proximity of another person – but not quite enough to make him want to move away.

“How’d you get into this?” Steve asked after a moment, lathering up the dog’s thick tail. “The dog grooming business, I mean.”

Bucky swallowed, ducking his head as his hands continued to move in slow, automatically circles over the dog’s fur. The real answer was too long, and too personal, to give – only Nat really knew it, and that was because she’d been there to live it with him.

“I just kind of fell into it,” he said, licking his lips awkwardly. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it still felt like one. Implying that all his goals came from a place of simple normalcy, and not a struggle to re-enter civilian life in a way that both kept his sanity and gave him enough money not to be out on the street. “I didn’t exactly grow up wanting to be a dog groomer, but – I knew I loved dogs, I wanted to work with them every day, and it just kind of – happened.”

“Oh,” Steve said, after a moment. “That’s great, then. I mean, you must really love it, that you opened your own salon. Kind of a risk.”

Bucky nodded, hearing the truth whisper in his mind. How it wasn’t just his dream to open up his own place, but a kind of necessity – how there had once been a time when he couldn’t always leave his apartment, how his mind had shut on and off unpredictably, how things - happened. How he had needed to be able to show up late without having to explain to his manager, or anyone else, why.

Nat teased him, now, when he was late, because it wasn’t so much an issue anymore, but once –

“Yeah,” he said, after a moment, when he realized he hadn’t given a proper response. “It was, but the salon’s been doing good, slowly building up a client base. And I do love it. I love the dogs, anyway.”

He rubbed shampoo suds over the top of the Sheltie’s head, looking down to give her a hesitant smile as he continued.

“It’s just kind of amazing,” he said, suddenly. “That they trust so much, you know? They don’t know me or Nat or Sam but they let you bathe them and trim their nails and cut their hair and they just – I don’t know. It just amazes me. That they trust so easily.”

He’d been envious, once, that dogs could do that. Trust so easily, give affection so openly, unburdened by fear or judgment. Maybe he still was.

Steve was nodding next to him. Both of them had stopped rubbing shampoo into the dog – she was full of white suds, and it had become a little redundant.

“It is,” the other man agreed softly. “They are. Kind of amazing, I mean. Dogs.”

He was looking up at him a little shyly, as if unsure what else to say. Bucky swallowed, breaking eye contact as he looked down, pulling his hands away.

“I think she’s nice and clean now,” he said, biting back his sudden nervousness. “Do you wanna try rinsing her off?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve said, blinking and turning his eyes down to the dog, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there, even with his hands buried in her fur. “Sure.”

Bucky watched as he reached for the hose, feeling oddly outside of himself, lost a little in his own thoughts. He had often wished that people could be more like dogs. 

Sweet. Loyal. Protective.

But they weren’t. And neither, really, was he.

He glanced down at the bite above his knuckles, the purple and red bright against his wet skin.

He was pretty sure that if he were a dog, he’d be a biter. And most people didn’t care, if it came out of fear, or something worse.


	5. Labrador Retriever

“Shh, baby,” Bucky said, rubbing his finger soothingly under the puppy’s chin. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He had a love-hate relationship with the task of a puppy’s first haircut. On the one hand, they were typically terrified of everything, wiggling away with pathetic little whimpers that broke his heart.

On the other hand, it was still a puppy, imbibed with endless puppy charms and presenting the opportunity for face licks on the way back to the kennel. And there was something satisfying, too, about the moment when he seemed to finally break through to the little creature that he didn’t want to hurt him or her – only make them slightly cuter.

He shushed the puppy again – a little Havanese – and smiled as it plopped down on the table, finally relaxing. He was at the most difficult part of the haircut – snipping the hairs that grew up just in front of the pup’s eyes. He couldn’t blame her, really. He would’ve probably tried to back away, too, if someone brought scissors that close to his face.

“There we go,” he said, slowly lifting his thinning shears again. He rubbed the closed side of them just above the puppy’s nose, letting her get used to the idea of an object there. Sometimes, just the sound of the scissors opening and closing was enough to scare them – he tried to desensitize them, one sense at a time. “Not so bad, huh?”

The puppy whimpered lowly at the sound of his voice, not entirely convinced.

“You’re doing so good,” he said, pulling back his shears again, going in instead with his hand. She closed her eyes as he gently rubbed her ears. “We’re almost done.”

He picked up his shears a final time, tilting her chin – and before she could squirm away again, he snipped the tufts of hair in front of her eyes with two quick clips.

“You’re really good at that.”

He spun around, eyes widening at the sight of Steve behind him.

“Jesus,” he said, releasing his breath as he lowered his scissors. “You scared me.”

Steve grimaced, sheepishly running a hand back through his hair.

“Sorry,” he said, flushing as he looked away. Bucky was getting painfully familiar with that blush, which appeared every time he had to correct him. Which wasn’t often, but – he was still a new employee, after all. “Do you mind that I watch you, sometimes?”

He wasn’t sure. On the one hand, knowing that Steve’s eyes were on him was nothing if not distracting – it made him self-conscious in a way he wasn’t familiar with. Not annoyed, the way he sometimes felt when customers stared at him grooming their dog like he was expected to put on a show, but – buzzing instead with a warm nervousness that made his stomach feel slightly queasy.

“Not at all,” he lied. Across the room, he caught the briefest glimpse of Natasha’s amused smirk as she turned back to face her dog.

“Oh, okay, good,” Steve said, the relief obvious in his voice. “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, I just – it’s amazing sometimes, how good you are with them. You’re so patient.”

Bucky gave him a half-smile, shrugging his shoulders.

“It comes with experience,” he said, dismissing the compliment as best he could. “You pick up things here and there. Little tricks.”

But Steve was still standing there, watching him with wide, appreciative eyes.

“Sure,” he said, finally breaking eye contact with Bucky as he walked a little closer, approaching the puppy. Its tiny tail started wagging as Steve reached out his hands, playfully nuzzling its head the way Bucky had. “But it’s gotta be more than that. Not everyone could do this. Sometimes you’re just so – gentle.”

There was something about the way he said that last word that made Bucky pause, his stomach going off-kilter again. He parted his lips, struggling to think of what to say in response –

But was saved, thank God, by the bell on the door as a customer walked in.

“I better go bathe that beagle,” Steve said in lieu of a goodbye, giving him a final smile before he turned and started walking to the back.

Praying that his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt, Bucky turned his attention to the front desk, ready to throw himself into interacting with whoever it was.

The unsteadiness he’d felt around Steve vanished, however, the instant he saw who it was.

“Clint,” he breathed, grinning as watched the other man struggle to walk in the door. He was shimmying it open with the back of his shoulder, both hands occupied – his left with a thick purple leash, and his right with a small hand that twisted free the moment they were inside the salon. Even his front was occupied, a sleeping baby wrapped tightly in a sling and braced against his chest.

“Uncle Bucky!” a voice shouted. He barely had time to catch sight of a flash of red behind the counter before the half door seperating the lobby from the rest of the salon slammed open, and suddenly, two thin arms were squeezed around both of his thighs.

“Hey, Sofia,” he laughed, setting aside his shears so that he could rest a hand fondly on her back. He signed Clint a quick hello before she released him, staring up at the table.

“A puppy!” she shouted, bouncing on the balls of her feet as it strained toward her, tail wagging.

“Inside voice, sweetheart,” Natasha called from her own table.

“It’s so cute and little!” Sofia squealed, her voice only slightly hushed. “It’s – ooh Uncle Bucky, can I pet it? Can I pleeease pet the –“

But Bucky was already loosening the loop around the pup’s body, keeping it tethered on the table, and dropping it into her arms. Immediately the puppy started wildly licking her face, and Sofia’s pleas shifted into delighted laughter.

“What’s up man?” Clint asked, nodding at Bucky and grinning as he watched his daughter for a moment. He shifted his attention to Natasha. “Babe, you forgot your lunch this morning.”

“You didn’t have to bring it,” she said, but she was smiling in the warm, genuine smile Bucky rarely saw except when she was surrounded by her family. “I could’ve stolen some of Bucky’s emergency ramen noodles.”

There was a loud bark, and Bucky turned his attention back to the front of the salon – Lucky had jumped up, paws on the counter, panting happily.

“Look Lucky!” Sofia said, walking over to the half door that separated them. She held out the puppy Simba-style, letting the dog eagerly sniff the puppy’s belly as it wiggled in her hands. “It’s a baby you!”

Lucky sniffed it a few seconds more, finally licking the puppy’s belly as Sofia giggled.

“We were going to the park, anyway,” Clint continued, petting Lucky’s head absently. “Wow, he sure likes this little guy –“

“We are not getting another dog,” Natasha said firmly, hand on her hip as she rolled her eyes at the scene. 

“Awe, come on,” Clint shot back. “Lucky needs a buddy. Somebody to snuggle with at night, since you keep kicking him off the bed.”

“He can snuggle with me!” Sofia declared, setting down the puppy so that she could wrap both arms around Lucky’s head. Watching, Bucky bent down, wrangling the puppy before it could have free run of the salon.

“He does, sometimes,” Clint said down to his daughter, before turning his attention again to his wife. “I mean, babe –“

“Just be happy you have me in your bed at night,” Natasha said. She gave him a look, and Bucky grinned as Clint immediately frowned, shutting up.

“I tell ya man, the single life, enjoy it while ya can,” he said, turning back to Bucky. “No Sam?”

“It’s his day off,” Bucky replied. He walked to the counter, puppy cradled in his arms, and leaned down, trying to get a closer look at the baby swaddled against the other man’s chest. All he could see was a pale blue cap, and just the tiniest bit of blond hair peeking out the back. “Does this little guy sleep through everything? He’s always asleep when I see him.”

“He’s doing this thing where he only sleeps when I’m awake,” Clint replied, smiling down at the bundle despite his words. “He’s Nat’s son, what can I say. I think he does it to spite me, since I’m the one without the boobies.”

“He roll over yet?” Bucky asked, giving up on getting a better look and leaning back.

Clint nodded emphatically.

“Oh yeah,” he answered, reaching his hand up to cup the baby’s back. “I swear he’s gonna be crawling soon. It’s a little early, but I don’t think he cares what the doctor says. Like I said, Nat’s kid. Rebel with a cause.“

“I still can’t believe you actually named him Nathaniel,” Bucky grinned.

Clint rolled his eyes, sighing.

“Marriage pro tip,” he said. “Never suggest anything as a joke that you seriously don’t want happening.”

Bucky was about to answer, but startled, looking down – Sofia was tugging insistently on his smock.

“Do you want to pet the puppy again?” he asked, holding it out toward her. It licked the air eagerly.

“No,” Sofia said, her lip curling into a little pout. “I wanna groom you.”

“Don’t you want to brush the puppy instead?” he suggested, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

“No,” Sofia repeated. She deepened her pout. “You.”

He looked up, sending Natasha a pleading look – but she only smiled. He turned to Clint instead, grimacing.

“Uncle Bucky has a lot of work to do, pumpkin,” he said, frowning back and giving his daughter a faux-serious look that Bucky really had no faith in.

“No!” Sofia said again, drawing out the word. She looked back up, pulling down his smock and holding it there. “Please, Uncle Bucky? I never ever see you ‘cause you never ever come over and I never ever get to groom you anymore and it’s not fair!”

Bucky took in a deep breath, holding it before he sighed.

“Sweetie, Bucky is working –“ Clint said, but Bucky shook his head, waving him off.

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling down briefly at Sofia. It grew into a real smile when he saw the elated expression on her face. “Just give me a second. I’m gonna put this puppy away, let her settle down.”

As Sofia jumped up and down excitedly, he turned, walking to the back. He settled the little puppy back in her kennel, and before he went back out, turned toward the bathing area to catch a glimpse of Steve still washing his beagle in the tub. He evidently couldn’t hear all the excitement going on out front, his attention focused entirely on the dog.

Bucky gave himself a few seconds to watch, smiling a little as Steve carefully rubbed shampoo along the dog’s long ears.

He reemerged in the salon, his smile deepening at Sofia’s excited cheer.

“Come on!” she said, bouncing around him as he lowered the table, adjusting the height to the point that he could sit down comfortably on it. As he settled down, he reached back behind his head, pulling his hair free of its loose bun.

Sofia immediately situated herself behind him, smoothing his hair down carefully around his shoulders.

“Would you like to be cute?” she asked, “Or – extra cute?”

Bucky licked his lips, humming as he pretended to think it over.

“Extra cute,” he said decidedly. Behind him, Sofia giggled.

“Okay, that’s good, because I only groom extra cutely,” she said. He turned his head slightly, watching as she pulled a brush down from the stand next to his table. “First, I will make sure you have no mats. Or else, I will have to shave your head.”

“And it’ll cost extra,” Natasha added, laughter behind her voice. 

“And it will cost extra,” Sofia added dutifully. “It will cost – forty more dollars.”

“Oh, I hope I don’t have any mats,” Bucky said, grinning as he tried to keep his voice serious.

“Do you brush your hair every day?” Sofia asked. As she did, Bucky felt the brush on the back of his head, running stiffly through his hair. He winced as it caught on a small tangle.

“I do,” Bucky replied, grimacing through another tug.

“Good,” Sofia said solidly. “It’s very important to brush your hair every day if you are a person, or if you are a dog you have to ask the person who keeps you to brush it. Unless you are Daddy, because his hair is very short and it doesn’t shed on the couch like Lucky’s.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said, nodding in agreement. He yelped as the plastic back of the hairbrush suddenly smacked against the top of his head.

“You have to hold still!” Sofia shrieked, just as her parents jumped in.

“Sofia, no hitting,” Natasha said severely.

“We never hit anyone,” Clint said, at almost the same time. “Not people, and not dogs.”

There was a silence behind him, and Bucky frowned, waiting. He heard a small sniffle.

“I’m sorry,” Sofia said, after a long moment. He couldn’t help but melt inside a little as he felt the tiniest brush of lips against the top of his head, right where the hairbrush had come down. “Will you hold very still Uncle Bucky?”

“Please,” Natasha supplied.

“Please?” Sofia repeated in a whisper.

“Sure thing,” Bucky said. He could practically hear the little girl’s smile.

“Okay,” she said. A little bit of brushing resumed, and then stopped – evidently, she was satisfied with her work. “Your hair is very soft and nice now. What colors of bows do you want in it? There are –“

He heard a drawer open slowly behind his head.

“White bows, pink bows, purple bows, red bows, blue bows, bows with paws, bows with hearts -“

“Red,” Bucky said, looking back to catch the little girl’s eye.

“Pink is prettier,” she said, her little pout returning.

“Sofia,” Clint said admonishingly. “You asked Bucky what color he wanted, and he asked for red. Don’t you think you should give him his favorite color?”

Sofia frowned miserably at that – clearly, she didn’t agree – but with a little huff she picked up the red bows, and Bucky turned obediently around.

He felt his hair being tucked back on one side of his head, the metal edge of the clip dragging along his scalp as the first bow was put in; then the process repeated itself on the other side.

“Ta-dah!” Sofia said, steering his shoulders to the left, where a mirror lined the wall. He smiled lopsidedly at himself, an expression that matched his hair. One red bow was slightly higher than the other, and a little askew.

“Wow,” he said, touching the bows lightly.

“You are the prettiest dog I ever saw,” Sofia said reverently, staring at his reflection with deep satisfaction.

There was laughter behind him, and he turned around, narrowing his eyes playfully at Natasha.

“What?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Jealous?”

“No, it’s just that,” Natasha, bracing her elbows on her table as her laughter continued, breaking up her voice. Next to her on the table, her dog widened its eyes. “It’s just – I think after watching that, I’m pregnant again.”

There was an excited gasp next to him as Sofia rushed forward toward her mother, and in the other direction, a disgruntled huff from Clint.

“Sorry, babe,” he said, hand cradling their baby. “His gayass sperm doesn’t want your egg. It would turn around and swim right back out.”

“Mommy, Mommy,” Sofia said, tugging now on Natasha’s smock. “What is a sperm?”

Bucky grinned as he watched her sigh a little under her breath before shooting Clint a dirty look.

“It’s a whale, sweetie,” she said, smoothing back the hair on the top of her daughter’s head.

“You have a baby whale growing inside your belly?” Sofia asked, awed. She reached up, pawing at Natasha’s flat stomach through her smock.

“No, there’s no baby growing inside me,” Nat said gently, pressing Sofia’s hand against her belly. “Not right now. Mama was just – being silly.”

“Oh,” Sofia said, sighly deeply. She pulled her hand away, pouting at the floor. “What about – a puppy?”

“Only baby humans grow inside humans,” Natasha explained. “A puppy can only grow inside a Mama dog’s tummy.”

Sofia considered this sourly, before her face lit up again.

“Mama!” she said, tugging again at her smock. “I can groom you, too!”

“Oh no,” Clint said, finally walking through the half-door. Lucky followed happily at his side, tail wagging. “We’ve been here too long already. We’re heading to the park, remember?”

“I don’t wanna go to the park anymore!” Sofia yelped. She wrapped her arms tightly around Natasha’s thighs, whining as she began to gentle peel them off.

“You love the park,” she said, smiling down at her. “I think Lucky’s excited. He wants to run around and chase you.”

Sofia considered this, lowering her head before finally nodding. Natasha brushed her hand over the top of it, smoothing back her red hair and leaning down to give her a kiss.

“Have fun,” she said, straightening back up and turning to her dog – a Shih Tzu that Bucky was amazed wasn’t barking its head off at Lucky.

He knelt down on the floor, opening his arms, ready to welcome Sofia into them for a quick good-bye hug – only to flinch at the sound of the door to the back room swinging open, and Steve’s quick footsteps.

He turned his head just in time to watch the other man freeze, startled to see the salon crowded with a little girl, an excited yellow lab and a strange man with a baby attached to him.

Lucky bounded over to him immediately, and Steve blinked, reaching down to rub his head absently as he stared. Bucky stood, ready to jump in and make the introductions –

“Who are you?” Sofia demanded. She even placed a hand on her hip in an eerie impersonation of her mother, eying him with a pout that was fast devolving into a scowl.

“Uhm,” Steve began, yelping in surprise as Lucky, no longer satisfied with being patted on the head, jumped up onto his chest, nearly knocking him over.

“Steve,” Natasha began – finally, Bucky mused – “My family stopped in to say hello. This is my husband, Clint, my little guy Nathaniel and my daughter –“

“You’re really short,” Sofia said, approaching Steve. She stopped a few feet in front of him, still frowning appraisingly.

“- Sofia,” Natasha finished. “Sweetheart, be polite and introduce yourself to Steve.”

Sofia, unfortunately, didn’t seem to have any intention of listening to her mother; her hip was still cocked, eyes challenging.

“So are you,” Steve replied to her – but kindly, kneeling down so that he was at her eye level. This gave Lucky access to his face, which he immediately took advantage of, licking Steve’s cheek and ear until he bent his head away with laughter.

Sofia was not impressed.

“I’m a kid,” she said firmly. “Kids are supposed to be short.”

And then, as Steve’s laugher subsided and he looked like he was struggling to find an appropriate response –

“Are you going to steal Uncle Bucky’s twenty dollars?” she demanded. She even pointed an accusing finger, which Bucky would’ve found hilarious, if this was directed to anyone but Steve.

“What?” Steve asked, smiling fading to a frown. Bucky quickly stepped in, pausing just behind Sofia. She slumped into his legs as he wrapped an arm around her, glancing up at him.

“The bather before you,” he said to Steve, in a loud stage whisper. “Sarah – she stole my tips.”

“Stealing is wrong,” Sofia announced, giving Steve another seething glare. Bucky tightened his half-hug on her shoulders, kneeling down so he could speak softly in her ear.

“Steve isn’t going to steal from me,” he reassured gently. “He’s a good guy.”

And as he said the words, even though he’d only known Steve for a few weeks, and he ought to have reserved his judgment much longer – he realized he actually thought they were true.

“No,” Steve jumped in, shaking his head slowly. “I won’t. I wouldn’t. I would never take anything from Bucky.”

A silence fell between the three of them, Bucky and Steve patiently waiting as Sofia’s pout softened.

“Your hair is weird,” she said, finally, her little voice half-sullen, half-curious.

Steve grinned shyly, reaching up to touch the shaved sides of his head with his fingertips, then run his hand back through the longer hair on top – almost as if he’d forgotten it was there.

“Yeah,” he agreed, shrugging. “It’s – kinda new. Do you like it?”

Bucky bit back the urge to answer himself, knowing the question was directed at Sofia.

She thought for a moment, reaching out to touch the hair herself. Steve let her, bowing his head a little as she thoughtfully poked the blond strands.

“Yes,” she decided. “It’s weird but it’s pretty, too. Did Uncle Bucky cut your hair?”

Bucky flushed, leaning in again to her ear.

“I told you before, Sof, I don’t cut people hair,” he said, surprised at how embarrassed his voice sounded. No matter how many times he’d stressed to the little girl that he was just a dog groomer, she seemed to view him instead as a generalized sort of artist, his touch turning things to ‘cute’ instead of gold.

“No, he didn’t,” Steve said, at almost the same time. He glanced up, eyes running over Bucky’s face. “Did you – did you help Bucky with his? It looks really – ahh - nice.”

If he had been blushing a little at Sofia’s mistake, his face was burning now as he remembered the lopsided red bows tucked into his long, loose hair. Suddenly, he was standing, clearly his throat.

Sofia, oblivious, beamed at Steve’s words, nodding excitedly. 

“Yeah! I did!” she said, turning around and reaching up to grab at Bucky’s hand. “Uncle Bucky, can I use your brush? I wanna groom Steve, too.”

“No no no, no more grooming,” a voice said behind them – Clint, swooping in. Bucky sighed internally with relief, his shoulders visibly relaxing. “The park, remember? These guys have work to do.”

Sofia sighed, too, but out loud, and from disappointment.

“Hey, none of that,” Bucky said. In a moment he was on his knees again, giving her a quick hug. It turned into a long, lingering squeeze, and he blinked in surprise when Sofia pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Can I come back tomorrow?” she asked softly, sighing again into his neck.

“I don’t know about that,” he said, pulling back a bit. “You’ll have to ask your Dad. Either way though, I’ll see you soon, okay?”

She nodded, first just a little, then more firmly. With a quick second kiss, she turned on her heel, running back to her father, who was just stepping away from giving his wife her own kiss.

He watched as the little girl tugged on his shirt.

“Daddy, the park,” she whined, and he grinned down at her.

“All right, all right,” he said. He leaned in to give Natasha another kiss, his grin widening when he was batted away. “Love you too babe.”

Then, to Bucky – “See you, man.”

They shuffled out of the salon, Lucky at his heels. As she slipped out the door, Sofia spun around, waving wildly.

“Bye Uncle Bucky!” she shouted. He waved back weakly, smiling as the door chimed.

The silence in their absence was strange, and Bucky slowly lowered his hand, shaking his head slightly and trying to gather his thoughts. He turned back to the salon floor, trying to remember what he’d been doing before they arrived.

“Your daughter is adorable,” Steve offered to Natasha, a bit shyly, as if he weren’t really allowed to comment.

“She’s a handful,” Natasha mused, even as she smiled fondly. “Very strong-willed.”

“I can’t imagine where she gets that from,” Bucky chimed in, smirking at her. Then he remembered – the puppy, that’s what he’d been doing – and he walked to the back, trying to remember whether or not he’d done her nails already.

He was getting back into his work state of mind, just about to open the kennel door, when a voice startled him out of his thoughts.

“I never see you with your hair down,” it said.

He spun around with a sharp intake of breath. Steve had followed him, was standing there, with an uncertain smile – and instantly he reached up, pulling the red bows free. He ignored the tiny stabs of pain when he yanked out a few hairs in the process.

“Yeah, it,” he mumbled, burning red again and furious with himself. How had he managed to forget the bows in his hair? “It gets in the way when I, you know, bend down. Gets in front of my eyes.”

Steve nodded, watching as Bucky shoved the bows into his pocket, pulling his hair tie back out and reaching behind his head to pull it back.

“Sure,” he said. “That makes sense. It looks nice, though.”

And with that, he shifted past him, moving to retrieve his own dog from its kennel.

Bucky turned back to the kennel door in front of him, the little white puppy pawing at it excitedly as she waited for him to open it.

Nice, his mind repeated dumbly. It looked ‘nice’. What did that mean?

He glanced over at Steve, who was slipping a leash around the beagle’s neck, as if looking at him could make the answer clear. He quickly glanced away again, taking in a quick breath.

He was being stupid. Overthinking things. Would it mean anything if he told Nat her hair looked ‘nice’?

No. No, it would not.

He opened the kennel door, taking the wiggly, overexcited puppy into his arms. He needed to stop being an idiot, and get back to work.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

It was a few days later when he got the invitation.

He grinned down at it the moment he saw the envelope, standing in front of the row of boxes in his apartment foyer and shuffling through his mail. It stood out immediately, pale yellow and covered in stickers. His name – just ‘Bucky’ – was written in oversized, messy letters, with his address squeezed in beneath it in neat, compact, adult handwriting.

He waited until he was back in his apartment to open it, flopping down on the couch and ignoring Scotch’s low, annoyed yowl of a meow.

It was for Sofia’s birthday. God, how had he managed to forget that she was born in the fall? He could remember rushing to the hospital, hearing the news that Natasha was in labor, a forgotten pumpkin spice latte in his hand – and the shock of seeing her completely composed, asking why he hadn’t brought one for her.

The invitation was equally charming. It wasn’t a proper card – just a sheet of paper folded twice so that it was roughly the same size, opening the same way. A computer animated cartoon fox and rabbit grinned on the front, cut out and glued there, and surrounded by colorful hand-drawn daisies, the petals all different sizes.

The information was printed inside – date, time, place. He pulled out his phone, sending Natasha a text.

‘Got the invitation,’ he typed. ‘Zootopia, huh?’

He set his phone down, stretching, reaching out to pet Scotch’s head – the cat blinked, unimpressed, until he moved his hand down to scratch at the base of his tail. By then, his phone buzzed, and he checked the text – as expected, from Natasha.

‘Dress up as your favorite animal. Unless it’s a bunny. Sof has dibs on the bunny.’

‘Damn. I really wanted to show up with a pom-pom on my butt.’

‘Clint insists on baking the cake himself. Lower your expectations.’

‘Consider them lowered. Will there be adult beverages?’

‘No asshole this is a child’s birthday party.’

Bucky grinned at that, wincing a little as Scotch stood and decided to walk across his thighs with all his weight, little paws digging into his skin. He was surprised when another text came through unprompted.

‘Oh. And I invited Steve ;)’


	6. Maltipoo

“Oh my god!”

Bucky allowed himself a half-smile as the dog launched itself forward, straining toward its owner – the blonde woman in a wine-colored pencil skirt currently shrieking in his lobby – and yelping excitedly as it skidded along, legs flailing.

They reached the front of the salon, and he stood aside, patiently waiting while the woman scooped up her Maltipoo, nuzzling its neck as a litany of cooing compliments spilled non-stop from her lips.

“Oh baby, oh my god you look so cute!” she said, as the dog lapped excitedly at her face. “Oh my god sweetie you’re precious! You look just like Boo!”

Those had been his grooming instructions, the lady handing off her dog with both hands and a confident smile – “Make her look like Boo!”

The dog did not look like Boo, because Boo was a full-blooded Pomeranian, and her dog was a mix, with thinner, silkier hair that was not destined to poof the way that Boo’s hair could poof. At first, he had tried to explain this to the woman, only to let his voice die away in the face of her sheer inability to understand anything he was saying.

So he’d done his best, and made her dog as cute and fluffy and round as he possibly could. And it seemed to have paid off, because the woman seemed happy and he was ninety percent sure she was going to tip.

“Oh my god, you’re amazing,” she said, finally breaking eye contact with her dog. Bucky startled, realizing she was now talking to him. “How do you do it? She’s like, just, oh my gosh! And she smells like a cupcake!”

“I’m glad you like how she turned out,” he said calmly. He busied himself with printing out her invoice. “Cash or credit?”

“You must be so good with your hands,” the woman continued, leaning a little over the edge of the counter, and definitely not digging in her purse for a credit card. He frowned, steeling himself. He’d been in this situation before.

“Oh, you know, it takes a lot of practice,” he said, hoping his smile wasn’t becoming as visibly pained as it felt. “Your total today is –“

He rattled off the number, trying to not notice as she looked pointedly at his hand, still clutching the invoice. His bare, ringless hand.

“I can imagine,” she replied slowly.

Now her eyes were making their way slowly up, from his hand to his chest to his face. He licked his lips, swallowing, and then realized what a mistake that was, as she bit her own cherry lips in reply.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you,” she said, as she slowly, very slowly, pulled open her wallet. “For taking such – good – care – of my little Paris.”

“Absolutely,” he said, watching intently as she flicked through card after card.

“And her owner, too,” she said, finally handing him the one she had chosen.

He tried not to look at her as he processed the transaction, but avoiding eye contact with customers generally did not bode well for customer service. He gave her as honest a smile as he could as she walked through the door, bell chiming – and cringed inside when she returned it with a wink.

And after all that, she didn’t even tip.

He walked to the back room, sourly going over every mat he’d painfully brushed out to transform Paris into an inadequate but still cute ‘Boo’. He was bending down, collecting his next dog, a cocker spaniel, from one of the kennels when there was a soft tap on his shoulder.

He turned around with an easy grin. No one else tapped him that tentatively.

“Hey,” he said, looking up as best he could at Steve’s face without fully turning around. “What’s up?”

Steve hesitated for a moment, then held out his hand. Tucked between his fingers were a few folded bills.

“From the lady with the Maltipoo?” he asked, and Steve nodded.

He spread open the money, mouth falling open – two twenties. 

That was something like a sixty percent tip. Jesus Christ.

“This, too,” Steve said, pulling a slip of paper from his smock. Bucky frowned, taking it with the same hesitancy that Steve gave it. He knew already, even before he opened it, what would be inside.

He looked down at the loopy, feminine numbers, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“She said to please tell you,” Steve began, straightening up his back and glancing away, as if he could hardly bear to look at Bucky as he spoke, “How – amazing – you are –“

Steve drew out the ‘maze’ in ‘amazing,’ and Bucky founded his cheeks reddening despite himself – despite the fact that this compliment was not coming from the person who was saying the words – 

“And that she and Paris are free all weekend,” he finished.

“Oh god,” he sighed, looking down again at the paper.

“Are you going to call her?” Steve asked. His voice was soft at first, and he cleared his throat, glancing away again. “She was really pretty.”

“She was,” Bucky said, finally beginning to stand, because he didn’t think he could bear another second of Steve looking down at him like that. He reached inside the kennel, slipping a lease around the cocker spaniel’s neck. It gave him an excellent opportunity not to look at Steve.

Steve, who was still standing there. Waiting for a proper answer.

“So, yes, then?” the other man pressed, shoving his hands down into his oversize smock. Bucky frowned, turning around to face him slowly, blinking as their eyes met.

Here it was, he thought, his mind seizing up at the realization. The perfect opportunity. Actually, no, Steve, I’m not going to call her, because I don’t sleep with women! Hey, can I get a close up look at those tattoos sometime? Have any others I can’t see?

“I’m sorry,” Steve said suddenly, as his mind raced ahead in the conversation and he stood, frozen, in front of him. “That was really rude, it’s none of my – none of my business.”

Tell him you’re gay, Bucky, he whispered to himself. It should be easy, shouldn’t it? He wasn’t ashamed. There was no chance Steve, however straight he was likely to be, would have any problem with it, because he was a decent and kind human being. So just say it.

“I don’t date clients,” he said instead. At his side, the cocker spaniel, thoroughly ignored, whined, and he bent down absently to rub its head.

Or my employees, he thought silently. Definitely not my employees.

“Oh,” Steve said. He bent down too, petting the dog, and Bucky strained to decode his voice, since he could no longer read his expression. “So – it’s not that you’re …”

Gay as fuck? his mind supplied. How funny you should guess that, Steve. You’re absolutely right, I am, indeed, really, really gay.

The other man’s voice trailed off, though, leaving Bucky to suffer in silence, waiting. 

“… seeing someone?” Steve finished, finally. His voice so quiet, Bucky wasn’t even sure he’d heard him correctly.

“Oh,” he replied dumbly, loosening and re-tightening his grip on the leash. “Yeah, no, I’m not – no.”

Steve finally stood again, giving the dog one final rub of the ears before glancing down at Bucky.

“I was just curious,” Steve began, and Bucky simply blinked at him, rooted to the spot as he spoke. “I mean, I figured. Not because – I mean – because you never mentioned anyone. And I know Natasha is married, and Sam is engaged …”

Bucky took in a deep, level breath. He wished he was artful enough to turn this conversation around on Steve, ask him all the same questions. How about you, Steve? You are single? Would you like this anonymous woman’s phone number? You said she was pretty. Any chance you’re into guys, too?

“Nope,” he said instead, shoving all of that away. “I’m not – yeah. Seeing anyone, at the moment. Too busy.”

Too busy? his mind repeated, as soon as the words slipped from him. Anyone could see through that. He was instantly grateful that Nat wasn’t around, because if she’d heard that, she’d have been laughing her ass off.

“Sure,” Steve said, nodding along with him. “I know what you mean. I’ve been really busy too, what with school and – working here.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, during which Bucky picked through his words. Did that mean he was single, too? Was that what he was saying?

Now he had no idea what to say.

“Well, I should,” he began, gesturing down helplessly at his dog.

“Oh, yeah,” Steve said immediately, stepping back to give him access to the door. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem,” Bucky said back, rushing forward. The dog trailed behind him, casting lingering eyes at Steve as it wagged its tail.

He was such a fucking coward.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

He’d tried, and failed, not to think about the party.

He had succeeded, however, at convincing himself that it was unlikely Steve would come.

He’d said it himself, after all, in the course of that conversation that Bucky in no way dwelt upon – that he was busy. He was a student, he probably had all sorts of projects that he needed to focus on, all kinds of studying to do. Attending a birthday party for a kid he’d met only once had to be pretty low on his priority list.

Even so, Bucky couldn’t blame Nat for inviting him. She had to, after all – she couldn’t invite everyone in the salon and leave out Steve. It was just the polite thing to do.

This is what he told himself, as he leaned over his sink, trying not to blink as he ran eyeliner just above his lashes.

He’d settled on a wolf, for his costume. It felt fitting. A lone wolf. That was him.

That, and it allowed him to incorporate the fake teeth he still had lying around from his last costume party, years ago. And he had precious few other ideas.

Before he knew it, he was knocking on Nat’s door, a purple and pink box shoved under his elbow. She opened it, grinning as she looked him over, the gentle chaos of an apartment full of adults and children pouring out behind her.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, her grin falling into a smirk. “The sexy vampire party is just down the hallway.”

She started to slowly close the door, and he caught it, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh come on,” he said, eying the cottony spiderwebs that were stretched over her hair, the strands peppered with long-legged plastic arachnids. “I’m clearly not the only one who raided last Halloween.”

“I’ll give you that, but – eyeliner, really?” she said, leaning her lithe frame against the doorway. “Since when do dogs wear eyeliner?”

“I’m a wolf,” he said, bearing his teeth and pointing at them. “See? Pointy teeth. Wolf. Very scary.”

Nat rolled her eyes, then blinked as they widened. 

“Are those my gloves?” she asked incredulously.

He looked down at his hands, holding them out. They were black leather, the fingers cut off the second knuckle. A ring of fur trimmed the bottom edge.

“I think so,” he said, stretching his fingers lazily. “You left them at my place after – I don’t really remember, I guess, after something. I forgot to give them back.”

“How sweet of you to bring them today,” Nat said, reaching out. Bucky pulled his hands back protectively.

“They’re the only thing I could find with fur on them, okay?” he hissed, drawing them in toward his chest. “You can have them back after the party.”

“Fine,” Nat clipped. She reached into her pocket, pulling out something rounded and flat and painted in fake gold. “Here, hold still.”

She stepped forward, pinning the object onto his black shirt. It was a plastic badge.

“Congratulations, Mr. Wolf,” she said, smoothing it down on his chest. “You are officially a police officer. Because in Zootopia, anyone can be a police officer, even a fluffy little bunny. Or a sexy goth wolf.”

“What?” Bucky asked, frowning down at the badge incredulously. “I don’t – damn it, I knew I should’ve seen the movie.”

“You should,” Nat agreed, giving the badge a final little nudge to straighten it. “It’s about racism. Well, we should get you inside, I suppose – Sofia’s been asking about you since seven this morning.”

He smiled, following Nat through the door and enjoying the rush of warmth those words brought to his heart.

He wove his way into the living room, barely able to assess the crowd before he felt a thigh-high sack of bricks fling itself onto his legs.

“Uncle Bucky!” Sofia yelped, and he grinned, repositioning his grip on her present. “You came! Is that for me?”

“Of course I came,” he said, smiling down at her and taking in the long, fur-covered white ears attached to a headband in her red hair. He offered her the colorful box, which she released his thighs to take. “And of course it’s for you, birthday girl.”

“I’ll put it on the table,” she said. She turned around, then paused, turning back to him again. “Stay there!”

“I will,” Bucky chuckled. He watched as she disappeared around the corner, her headband tilting back dangerously. Then, in her absence, he looked around, glancing away from children he didn’t quite recognize – until he spotted Sam sitting on the sofa, next to his fiancé, Riley.

He made his way over, deciding he wasn’t really disobeying Sofia’s command, since he was still in the same room.

“Hey,” he said, addressing Sam first, since he didn’t know Riley nearly as well. “You bailed on the costume part, huh? Trying to make the rest of us look like idiots?”

“I am in costume,” Sam said, grinning as he looked up. He tugged on the brown leather jacket he was wearing, holding it out proudly. “See this? It’s the vintage flight jacket Riley got me for our anniversary. And you know what else flies?”

“Squirrels?” Bucky mused, frowning down cockily at him. 

“Falcons,” Sam said firmly, raising an eyebrow at him. “Falcons fly.”

“Not in vintage flight jackets,” he shot back.

“I’m a stylish, metaphorical Falcon,” Sam replied easily. “What are you supposed to be? A very conservative stripper?”

“Wolf,” Bucky said, lifting his upper lip in a faux snarl and exposing his plastic fangs.

“And I’m a falconer,” Riley said, jumping in to lift his arm and proudly display an oversized gardening glove on one hand. “This is where his metaphor lands when it’s done flying around. See? We match.”

Bucky couldn’t help but quirk his lips at that. He was just forming the basis of another snarky comment to Sam when he felt someone tug down roughly on his shirt.

“Uncle Bucky!” Sofia said, thrusting something red up toward his face. “I brought you a popsicle.”

That was exactly what it was – a bright red, round, dripping popsicle. He grimaced, realizing there was no way he had the heart to refuse her.

“Thanks, sweetie,” he said, carefully transferring the stick into his own hand. Sofia beamed up at him.

“Mama put real strawberries in it ‘cause they’re healthy and Daddy puts in too much sugar,” she said, and with that, she spun around, disappearing back into the crowd.

Bucky frowned down at the treat in his hands – it was indeed a homemade popsicle, pressed into the rounded shape of a pawprint. Seeing no way out of it, he brought it to his lips, licking lightly along the edge of it as he drifted toward the kitchen, hopeful he might find an out-of-sight trash can he could slip it into.

And that was when he nearly smacked chest-to-chest into Steve.

“Oh, hey!” Bucky said, stepping back and dodging out of the way just in time. He held his popsicle out awkwardly in front of himself, letting a pair of children run around him. “You’re – you’re here.”

He looked up, horrified, because Steve was here, and for once he wasn’t wearing his too-big, body-cloaking smock. Instead – God help him – he was wearing real, actual clothes: tight jeans that Bucky could only make himself quickly glance at, and a navy t-shirt. Worse of all, though –

“Natasha invited me,” Steve said. He looked concerned for a moment, annoyed, maybe, that Bucky was so surprised to see him there. But then he seemed to recover himself, taking a slow lick of his popsicle.

“You got one too, huh?” he asked, when Bucky failed to say anything.

“What?” Bucky asked. He resisted the urge to shake his head, eyes darting helplessly from Steve’s red-stained lips to his face and to his clothes and then back again to his lips, which were forming words.

“A popsicle,” Steve said, cocking his out toward him. “They’re good, right? Real strawberries.”

It was utterly unfair. Steve, in clothes that fit. With a popsicle. And a collar, a red fucking collar, around his neck, because, judging by the long, tan fabric ears dangling from either side of his head, he had dressed up like a Golden retriever.

“Yeah, they’re,” Bucky started, swallowing. He felt like he’d forgotten how to talk. “They’re good. Sofia brought me one. I don’t know where she ran off to.”

“She’s really cute,” Steve offered. He took another casual lick off the corner of his popsicle, melting dangerously at the edges, as he spoke. “I’m not the greatest with kids, though. I had no idea what to get for a present.”

“It doesn’t matter, she’d be happy with anything,” Bucky said immediately, not willing to admit just how long he’d lingered in the toy aisle, obsessing over his options and feeling absurdly out of place. “What’d you go with?”

“Coloring books,” Steve answered, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly. “I figured, all kids draw, right? And they’ve gotta go through them quickly. But I put the receipt in just in –“

“She’ll love them,” Bucky said, cutting him off with a smile. He swallowed again, his nervousness ebbing into an uneasy sort of haze. “You should see the stuff she’s drawn for me. It’s all over my fridge in my apartment. I can’t make myself take any of it down.”

Steve smiled at that, a real, easy smile that made Bucky feel marginally better about the places this conversation was going.

“She really likes you,” he offered, gently. “Have you known her since she was born?”

“I was at the hospital,” he confirmed, remembering with a twinge of unpleasantness how he’d wanted to rip apart every magazine in the waiting room in his anxiety, irrationally jealous of Clint and the husbandly status that allowed him access to her hospital room. And then, later, the utter awe of holding such a tiny, brand new human life. “God, it was –“

He realized he’d crossed into territory that felt far too personal, and he felt his cheeks flush, looking down at his forgotten popsicle.

“It was really amazing,” he said, finally. Inadequately.

“You and Natasha go way back, then,” Steve suggested, after a lingering moment of silence had passed between them.

“Forever,” he said, sighing at just how long it had been. More than decade – before the kids, before Clint, before the salon had even been a dream. “She’s like a sister to me.”

“I can tell,” Steve chuckled. “I know you own the salon, but she really doesn’t let you get away with anything.”

Bucky shrugged at that, giving him a half-smile meant as an agreement.

“To be fair, she doesn’t let anyone get away with anything,” he mused. 

“Do you want kids someday?” Steve asked.

Bucky blinked, startled. He tightened his grip on his popsicle, with syrup now sliding down the stick onto his fingers – he tried to ignore it, anything other than openly lick something in Steve’s presence. Did he want kids?

Part of him jumped to the joy he felt around Sofia, and immediately sighed a yes.

But then he remembered his fledgling business, and his shitty apartment, and how alone he was, and how so much would have to come together – and how unfair it would be, to let him be the only barrier between a vulnerable, impressionable child and an unsafe world.

He swallowed, shrugging his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he said. He meant to leave it at that, but the way Steve was looking at him, searchingly, so intently, made him edge forward. “I mean – when I see how Sofia is growing up, I think, yes, but then, there’s just so many reasons why I shouldn’t.”

“Why you shouldn’t?” Steve repeated. He shifted a little closer to him, frowning. “What do you mean by that?”

What I mean by that, Steve, is: I’m functional now but there are no guarantees. I can keep it together day by day but that’s just taking care of myself – how could I manage the responsibility of taking care of another human being? Not just a child, but even a lover, a partner –

He cleared his throat. There was a blank space in his life, years wide, that Steve didn’t know about. Would never know about.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, when he failed to answer. Bucky couldn’t be sure, but he thought he felt cracks forming in his expression, cracks Steve was sure to easily see. “I shouldn’t … I just –“

Just then, he caught sight of a flash of red and black, drifting through the kitchen.

“That’s Nat,” he said, squeezing the words out through his panic. “I – excuse me.”

He rushed forward, ignoring the flash of hurt in Steve’s eyes. Was it hurt? He couldn’t tell. Anger, maybe. He was being rude, after all. Rude, and a coward.

He rounded up on Natasha, who was opening a white bakery box, edging out its contents carefully.

“I thought Clint was baking the cake?” he asked, hoping she couldn’t hear the tightness in his voice.

“That idea fell apart at eleven o’clock last night when Nathaniel was screaming and Sofia had come out of her room for the fourth time asking if it was her birthday yet,” she answered, not looking up as she carefully set the cake on her counter. Only it wasn’t a cake, Bucky noted; it was a collection of pale purple cupcakes, arranged in the loose shape of a bunny’s head.

Nat glanced up, seeing his confused frown.

“A proper birthday cake takes twenty four hours notice,” she said, sighing. His frown deepened; she looked exhausted, the skin under her eyes the same color as the cupcakes. She straightened her shoulders, though, offering him a box of candles.

“Help me put them on the cake?” she asked, and he took the box eagerly, grateful to have something to do. He threw his popsicle in the trash nearby.

Six candles later, he stood side to side with Natasha, admiring his handiwork. Then, when he was sure no one was lurking behind them in the kitchen, he leaned his head in toward her shoulder.

“By the way,” he hissed, waiting until she turned toward him, narrowing her eyes. “What kind of sick person serves popsicles at a child’s birthday party?”

He glanced over the kitchen island toward the living room, where Steve was gnawing on the remains of his popsicle stick, lips stained red.

“What kind of sick person sexualizes dessert at a child’s birthday party?” Nat shot back, her voice low, but alive with a hint of amusement. “If you think that was for you, stop being so full of yourself. They’re in the movie.”

“Sure they are,” he whispered harshly. 

“I saw you talking,” Nat said, bumping his shoulder lightly. “You’re telling me everything later.”

With that, she turned around, intent on finding Sofia so they could gather everyone together and serve the cupcakes.

He sighed, frowning down at the bunny head and its colorful, unlit candles.

Fine, he answered in his mind. Too bad there was no story to tell.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

An hour later, Bucky was biting into his third cupcake, licking the excess frosting from the corner of his mouth and planning his escape.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be there for Sofia – he did, he really did – but there were so many people, people he didn’t know, milling around the apartment with nothing to do now that the presents had been opened and the cake had been cut. That was why he was on his third cupcake – it was really good, yes, but mostly adults tended not to approach him if he was shoving food into his face.

“Jesus Christ, aren’t these fucking amazing?”

He turned his head, seeing Clint approach him from behind and lean over the sofa. He was eating another cupcake, too, though Bucky doubted he had the same reasons. He was a little amazed, frankly, that he’d managed to keep frosting out of the purple feathers stuck into his hair.

“Damn straight,” he said, peeling away another half-inch of the wrapping. “Lavender was an odd choice for the frosting, though.”

“Yeah, well, the bunny’s gray, you try and find gray fucking frosting,” Clint said, taking another hefty bite of his. “Seriously though, you gotta try this place. New little bakery, it’s like, two blocks from the salon. These two British lesbians run it.”

His interest piqued at that, and he grinned.

“Seriously?” he questioned. “British lesbians?”

“Pretty sure,” Clint confirmed. “Definitely British, anyway. And female. You heading out soon?”

He wasn’t sure how he should feel about that question – grateful, that Clint knew he rarely stuck around long at parties like these and anticipated his need to exit gracefully, or embarrassed that this was always, consistently, the case.

“Probably,” he admitted. He took a final bite of his cupcake, crumpling the wrapper in his hand.

“Yeah, well, just say good-bye to Sofia before you go,” Clint said, straightening up and clapping him on the shoulder. “Or else we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Of course,” he said, giving him a quick smile. The truth was, he would never dream of leaving without saying good-bye to her.

“Sweet,” Clint replied, returning the grin. “And take a few dozen popsicles for the road. We have, like, no room in the freezer.”

He nodded, fully intending not to do so. Then he stood, beginning to float awkwardly around the apartment, looking for Sofia while trying not to look like he was looking for someone. Finally, he heard her voice, bright and cheerful, drifting from her open bedroom door.

“She isn’t dressed right for winter,” it said – happy, but slightly stubborn. “She isn’t even wearing a winter coat.”

“She’s an allegory of winter,” a voice replied to her, and Bucky’s steps slowed – he knew that voice. 

A loaded pause, and then Sofia’s huffy voice again: “What?”

He edged closer to the open door, looking in. He could see Sofia, stretched out on the floor, calves dangling in the air. A book was spread open in front of her, along with a scattered pile of colored pencils.

“She’s a symbol of winter,” Steve’s voice explained. He was kneeling next to her, gesturing at the open page. “I mean – when you look at her, you see things that remind you of winter. Like see how she has those branches behind her, with no leaves? Trees look like that in winter.”

“But winter isn’t a person, it’s a season,” Sofia mused. She picked up a new colored pencil, lowering it to the page.

“Right, but,” Steve started, then faded off, humming to himself in frustration. “It’s like – if I drew a pumpkin, it would make you think of Halloween, right? Even though a pumpkin isn’t a holiday. It’s a symbol for Halloween.”

Sofia copied his hum, holding her pencil still for a moment.

“So,” she said slowly. “She’s just supposed to make you think about winter?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, sighing the word – the relief in his voice was clear.

“I think I get it,” Sofia replied. Bucky watched as she lifted an orange pencil to the page, and finally cleared his throat to announce himself. He didn’t want to interrupt – had been hoping, really, to sneak out without confronting Steve – but he couldn’t leave without a good-bye to Sofia.

“Uncle Bucky!” she said, grinning, but not getting up. “Steve is teaching me about art.”

Steve turned around, too, smiling shyly at the sight of him in the doorway.

“Oh yeah?” Bucky questioned, and Steve looked down at the mess of colored pencils, shrugging.

“I was trying to explain what an allegory is,” he admitted, grimacing at the mess. “The coloring books I got, they’re meant for adults, I guess, but the ones for kids just seemed so – juvenile, I don’t know.”

“Uncle Bucky, come see,” Sofia said, gesturing for him to enter and pointing at the open pages of the book. “In real life these are windows! Like in a church!”

“Stained glass windows,” Steve supplied, still feigning interest in the book as Bucky approached, kneeling down for a closer look. “Art nouveau, to be specific. It’s probably too advanced for a six year old but – yeah – like I said before, I don’t know much about kids.”

“This is a picture of a lady but really it’s a picture of winter,” Sofia said, jumping in and pointing to the picture she was currently coloring with authority. She jabbed her finger at the second page. “And this one is of springtime because the lady has pretty flowers, and a bunny. Like Judy!”

Bucky had no idea who Judy was, but he nodded all the same.

“I don’t know,” he said, directing his voice to Steve. “It seems like she’s having fun. And learning something, on top of it.”

“And this,” Sofia continued, turning the page. “Is fall because the leaves are falling around the lady. Don’t you like their dresses, Uncle Bucky?”

He leaned a little closer to the picture, nodding at their flowing, robe-like gowns.

“Very pretty,” he murmured. “Maybe you could color the winter lady with colors that make you think of winter. Do you think that would make sense?”

“No, Uncle Bucky, because winter makes me think of snow and snow is white and white is not a color, and that’s boring,” Sofia said, curling up her nose a bit.

“What about blue, then?” Steve offered gently.

Sofia considered this, tilting her head back and forth a moment in contemplation before shaking it roughly.

“No,” she said firmly. “I’ll color her pink, because winter makes your cheeks pink.”

Bucky grinned at that, watching as Sofia deftly picked up a pink pencil before turning to Steve.

“Does that work?” he asked, his voice light. “Does that fit the art nouveau style?”

Steve shrugged, returning his smile.

“It’s art,” he said, turning his eyes back to Sofia. “There’s no right way to make art.”

Bucky took in that answer, then nodded. Then nodded again.

It was another half-hour before he finally kissed Sofia’s cheek and left the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is so random, honestly. It amazes me that people read it.
> 
> On a side note, last week someone brought in a puppy named Bucky, and he happened to go with the one groomer who actually talks to dogs out loud more than I do. So I had to listen to phrases like "Uh-oh Bucky you're getting all wet! Do you like that, do you like getting all wet?" at work without completely losing my shit ...


	7. Pembroke Welsh Corgi

Bucky sighed as he shut the kennel door, his fingers lingering on the metal latch. Inside, the little Pom he’d just finished yapped excitedly, jumping up on the bars, but he ignored her, taking the moment just to be still.

Two more dogs. He was forty-five minutes behind and running on a pathetic lunch of raw strawberry Poptarts and a half-drunk bottle of soda he’d opened yesterday, but he could do it. In actually, he seriously had to step up his game – it was only going to get worse, the closer they inched to Thanksgiving.

He raised his head, steeling himself. Two more dogs, and then he could go feel sorry for himself in the comfort of his own home.

He moved down the line, bending down to a lower, larger kennel and wrapping his slip leash around the neck of a particularly beautiful white and black setter. Then, mentally surrendering to the next few hours of solid work, he led her out into the bright light of the salon.

Natasha was set up at her table across from him, silently clipping the nails of a very restless Cairn terrier, jumping and jerking at every cut. Steve was in-between dogs, currently checking someone out at the counter.

Or, at the very least, that’s what it looked like at first. Bucky let his setter jump gracefully onto the table, watching from the corner of his eye as he began brushing out the long, silky strands of her fur. Minutes passed – minutes during which Steve should’ve been taking money, handing back an invoice, looking things up on the computer. Only, he wasn’t.

He was just talking. And smiling, Bucky noticed, a warm, easy smile that was still somewhat unusual to see on Steve’s face, even though he’d settled in quite a bit over the past few weeks. He smiled like that after Sam told a good joke, or Nat related something adorable Sofia had said the day before, or he complimented Steve on the calm assertiveness he used with difficult dogs.

It wasn’t a smile he gave to customers. In that realm, he was – if he was in a bad mood – stoic but firm, and very polite, or – if he was in a good mood – friendly and cheerful but reserved.

He frowned. The customer was still not leaving. He moved around to the other side of his dog, pretending to brush out a non-existent mat, so he could take a better look at her.

She was beautiful. Really beautiful, in a faultless, classic sort of way. Her dark hair fell in waves around her face, and her make-up was impeccable, with perfect, cherry red lips. And she was smiling, too.

He brushed a little harder. They were just chatting together, pleasantly, as if they’d known each other their whole lives. Did Steve know her? He’d never had friends stop by the salon before. Maybe she was a fellow student, in one of his classes?

But Bucky doubted that. She didn’t strike him as an artist. Although she could certainly find work as someone’s model.

He forced himself to turn away, opening his drawer with a soft bang and rummaging in it for a different brush. As he did, he tried to catch bits and pieces of their conversation, but it was impossible – he was just out of earshot.

But even if he couldn’t make out the words, he could appreciate her voice – it was lovely, confident and melodic. And, he thought, rich with an accent he couldn’t quite place.

Frustrated, he went back to brushing out his dog, forcing himself to focus on his work and not the conversation that carried on happily without him. At least, that is, until Steve was suddenly calling for him.

“Bucky, erm, I mean, James,” he began – Bucky preferred the customers to know him by his given name, as he’d long grown sick of explaining it to strangers who forgot it in five minutes anyway – “This is Peggy, she’s one of the owners of the new bakery down the street. She wants to talk with you.”

He frowned a little in confused surprise, but perked up at that – it didn’t sound like the introduction one gave for a close, personal friend.

He let his setter hop down off the table, refastening her leash before walking over to the counter.

“Bucky,” the woman said, giving him a broad smile as she held out her hand. “A pleasure.”

“James,” he corrected, grasping it firmly. She shook it briskly, giving his fingers a tight squeeze. “I prefer James.”

“James, I apologize,” she said immediately, and he clued in on the accent. British, definitely British. It came to him, then, suddenly – she had to be one of the lesbians Clint had mentioned. Theirs was the bakery Clint had raided for last-minute birthday cupcakes.

He was immediately met with a rush of relief, but also confusion. He didn’t like to stereotype, but there was nothing about this woman that screamed ‘lesbian’ – if anything, she looked like a damn pin-up girl.

Clint must’ve seen some condemning form of evidence. A kiss, maybe, with the other owner. He’d find some way to get him to confirm.

He glanced briefly toward Steve as he released her hand. He’d feel much, much better knowing that she was a confirmed lesbian, and a taken one at that.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. He was going for friendly, but instead his voice came out as a gravelly sort of civil.

Her pretty smile faltered a little at that, he saw, just the briefest flinch of surprise – but she recovered it quickly.

“My partner and I just opened a little bakery down the street,” she said, leaning forward over the counter. “I’m just going ‘round to meet everyone in the neighborhood, introduce myself. Angie would’ve loved to join me, but someone has to keep the ovens going. It’s been a madhouse since we opened.”

Bucky pursed his lips, wondering over her first words. What did she mean, exactly, by partner? Business partner, or – life partner? Did anyone even call their same-sex spouses partner, anymore, instead of wife or husband?

“Ahh,” he said, mind racing to maintain the conversation as he kept up his own internal monologue. “It’s great to meet you, in that case. Always good to know a fellow small business owner.”

Her smile tightened at that – could she tell how fake he was being, he wondered? – before gently pushing a pastel-colored box forward on the table.

“I brought some cupcakes for your staff to enjoy,” she said, maintaining the same warm, upbeat tone. “They’re an Earl Grey infusion with lemon chiffon buttercream. I apologize, I didn’t realize that Steve here had an allergy – I’ll make a special batch and drop them by tomorrow.”

Bucky widened his eyes at that – he also didn’t know that ‘Steve here’ had an allergy, and this, for some reason, bothered him greatly. He turned his eyes on him, frowning when he saw that Steve was blushing furiously, looking away.

“That’s really not necessary,” he muttered. “You don’t need to make a special batch just for one person –“

“Nonsense,” the woman quipped immediately, and Bucky realized she still hadn’t given her name. “We’ll sell the extras in the shop. You’re not the only one sensitive to dairy. Everyone deserves their fair share, don’t you think?”

Steve’s face brightened a bit at that, and Bucky found himself swallowing stiffly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name,” he said. He opened the box at the corner, peeking inside suspiciously – the cupcakes were immaculate, the frosting swirls on top more perfectly sculpted than her dark eyebrows – and he quickly closed the box again.

“Oh, terribly sorry,” she said. “Peggy.”

“Peggy,” he repeated slowly. “Well, Peggy, thanks so much for –“

“Actually,” she said, cutting him off. “I wanted to do a little more than just introduce myself. I have a bit of a business proposition for you.”

Bucky felt his shoulders stiffen up, and he swallowed hard at this news. It was nice that she’d brought the cupcakes and all, but he didn’t think he was ready to entertain any type of business arrangement, whatever she was about to suggest. At least, until he had a chance to talk with Clint.

They had a bulletin board near the door, where aspiring dog-walkers and dog-acupuncturists and dog-massage-therapists posted flyers – maybe that was all she wanted. A little sign put up. Buy my fancy British cupcakes. He could handle that, he decided.

“Oh?” he said, willing himself to relax.

“I thought we might do a bit of a cross promotion,” she said brightly. “We also make cupcakes just for dogs – different flavors, peanut butter and banana, sweet potato, you know – all natural, perfectly healthy and safe … and I thought perhaps you might wish to sell them here, in your salon.”

Bucky licked his lips slowly, wondering at the best and most polite way to offer a ‘no’.

“We could deliver them fresh to you every day –“

A very hard ‘no’.

“And you’d be welcome to any extras that didn’t sell, take them home to your own pup. And we could split the profits. You might put up a little sign next to the display with the name of our bakery –“

He glanced back, suddenly feeling Natasha’s eyes. Her eyebrows were raised in questioning, her full lips pursed – that was her don’t-fuck-up-this-business-decision-by-being-an-emotional-idiot look. He knew it well. Quickly, he looked away, back to a smiling Peggy.

“And of course in return we’ll put up a little sign advertising your grooming salon. What do you say? No risk at all to you, of course. If it turns out the cupcakes don’t sell well, we can end our arrangement.”

He sucked his lip into his mouth, worrying it over. The ‘no’ he’d been imagining had felt so much easier, before she’d gone on and on about all the practical, sensible reasons why this was a fantastic idea.

Finally, he took in a deep breath.

“I don’t know if that’s –“ he started, hissing as Nat immediately jumped in.

“We’ll give it some thought, won’t we?” she said, reaching far, far over from her table – close to Bucky’s shoulder in the process – and offering her hand to Peggy, who stretched out her own to take it. “Natasha. I’m the salon manager.”

She said it with an air of authority that made Bucky grit his teeth slightly – she was the manager, true, but he was the goddamn owner, after all. But he held his tongue, deciding that putting off his decision would give him time to come up with a very convincing reason to refuse.

“We will, we’ll think on it,” he agreed sourly. He took up the box of cupcakes roughly, making them rattle inside. “Thank you so much, Peggy, we’ll – we’ll be in touch.”

Peggy didn’t look the least bit reassured by his words – in fact, Bucky had the sense that she’d been able to see through him throughout the course of this entire interaction – but she smiled all the same.

“In that case, I look forward to hearing from you, James,” she said, bowing her head slightly to him. She repositioned her gaze, looking past him. “Natasha.”

And then, with her pretty smile broadening into something more genuine, a little more – in Bucky’s opinion, anyway – dangerous:

“Steve.”

She nodded again, looking him straight in the eye. Bucky’s stomach sunk as the blond returned it with a smile that was just as warm, and just as sincere. Not even the sight of Peggy’s retreating back, and the sound of the door jingling shut behind her, made the feeling evaporate.

“She was nice,” Steve said, after a moment, when silence had settled back over the room. Bucky didn’t miss the slight note of awe in his voice.

“Yeah, real nice,” he said, unable to keep the sharp edge out of his. “Aren’t all British people supposed to be nice? She probably has two fuckin’ Corgis at home.”

“What?” Steve asked, blinking, but Bucky turned away, marching his dog solemnly back to his table.

“Don’t stereotype,” Natasha said, eying him darkly from her own table. After all, Peggy wasn’t the only woman with the gift to see effortlessly through his bullshit.

“She makes tea-flavored cupcakes for God’s sake,” he muttered. He gave the box, still lying on the counter, a resentful glare; then turned back to his dog, whipping out a brush and letting the conversation drop.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Peggy returned, as promised, with a dairy-free cupcake just for Steve, packaged in its own miniature pastel box and sealed with a sticker bearing his name.

Thankfully, Steve had been in the back room at the time, bathing a dog, and Bucky had accepted it instead with a stiff smile, a smile that he carefully maintained when Peggy casually asked if he’d considered her proposal.

They were still mulling it over, he’d said, smiling a little wider, bearing his teeth. And then he’d come up with a quick, legitimizing lie – they were going to discuss it, actually, at their weekly salon meeting.

Which was this morning.

He pushed the salon door open with his back, carefully balancing the tray full of steaming drinks he’d picked up around the corner. He nodded at Sam, who was leaning against the counter and fiddling with his phone, before turning sharply into the office. Natasha was already there, her face lit up from the bright computer screen she was squinting at.

“You’re late,” she said, eyes not breaking contact with it as she spoke. Bucky scrunched his nose at her, taking his sweet time as he shrugged off his coat.

“I’m only,” he said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “What, four minutes late? I’d say you could write me up but – oh, yeah, that’s right! I employ you, not the other way around.”

Natasha ignored him, scrolling through spreadsheets and reaching out for her coffee.

“It’s a good thing none of us follow your fine example,” she muttered. “Should we start this thing? We’ve only got a half-hour, and there’s always a customer who shows up early.”

Bucky was about to nod, pulling out a chair and waving Sam into the office, but then he faltered, looking around.

“What about Steve?” he asked, frowning.

One of the four cups he’d carried in the door was for Steve. He’d panicked, momentarily, standing in line at Starbucks – he didn’t know how Steve liked his coffee, if he liked coffee at all. After word-vomiting his concerns to the barista, she serenely suggested a chai latte with coconut milk. It felt like a safe enough option.

“Sick,” Nat said, clicking through something on the screen.

“What do you mean, sick?” Bucky asked, reaching forward to grab his own drink from the desk.

“He called in sick,” Nat said, shrugging her shoulders.

“What, like, he has the flu or something?” Bucky pressed, squeezing the cardboard sleeve around his cup. “Or just a cold, or –“

“I don’t know, Bucky,” the salon manager sighed, rolling her eyes up into the air. “I didn’t ask questions. He just said he was sick. He did sound pretty awful, though. He had to excuse himself for a moment, I heard coughing.”

Bucky’s frown deepened at that, and he looked behind his shoulder as Sam finally shuffled into the office.

“Steve’s sick?” he asked, taking a seat next to Bucky in front of the desk. “Oh, Starbucks? Thanks man.”

“Yeah, he called in,” Natasha repeated, finally turning away from the computer. “I split his dogs between us. It’ll be a long day, but it could be worse. Sam, I gave you his ten o’clock beagle, Bucky, a pittie mix at two –“

She went on, but Bucky didn’t really listen, looking down instead at his coffee. The image of Steve coughing was still lingering in his mind, and it was a few minutes before he took the first sip.

The meeting went by quickly, with Natasha summing up their numbers. They were averaging a twenty percent increase in profit over last year, but that should shoot up by the time they cleared Christmas. Sam could do better at suggestive selling extra services like deep conditioning treatments –

“Hey, not my fault,” he’d said, raising his left hand and wiggling it in the air, his silver engagement ring flashing under the florescent light. “Ever since I got this baby, the ladies won’t look at me. I can’t flirt with them like Bucky.”

“I don’t flirt with the customers!” he’d said defensively, his shoulders slumping when Nat raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“I’m surprised they don’t slip their tip money right in your damn belt buckle,” Sam said, laughing, and Bucky had held his tongue, because it was true, a little, he did tend to get more tips when he made an effort to smile –

\- and in general they should all try to enjoy October, aka the calm before the shitstorm.

“I am not looking forward to Thanksgiving,” Sam said, as the meeting wrapped up and he rose to his feet. “Remember last year? I was ready to just say fuck it and go to KFC when Thursday rolled around. No way in hell was I making a goddamn turkey. But then I came home and saw Riley in the kitchen with two bottles of red wine, and somehow I survived.”

“Clint begged me for weeks to let him get a turducken,” Nat said, smiling fondly behind the desk. “And then he nearly burned down the apartment attempting to cook it. We got Chinese.”

Bucky quirked his own lips at the memory, remembering how he’d made Sofia’s chopsticks easier to manage by tying them together with a rubber band, and how they’d read the Chinese zodiac placemat together and found out – somewhat unflatteringly – that he was a Snake.

He had a standing invitation to all of Natasha’s holiday celebrations.

“That was a good Thanksgiving,” he said softly, his eyes gazing off a little into the distance.

“Yeah,” Sam said, nodding at his own memories. “Good check, too. That’s the one thing I can’t complain about. It may be completely crazy in the salon, but damn if I don’t make decent money nearly killing myself.”

“Only a few weeks left until then,” Nat said, faking cheerfulness. Bucky started to stand up himself, following Sam’s example – they had a busy day ahead of them, after all, if they were squeezing Steve’s bath dogs into their own schedules – but Nat stopped him.

“Hold on,” she said, her voice lowering an octave as Sam slipped out the door. Bucky regretfully settled back down in his chair.

“What?” he asked, a little tersely. They only had a few minutes left before the first customers of the day showed up to check in their dogs.

“We need to talk about the cupcake situation,” she said, folding her hands on top of the desk and raising an unamused eyebrow.

The cupcake situation. Bucky grimaced.

“Don’t you think we’ll have enough to do without selling someone’s baked goods?” he said, unable to keep the scowl off his face as he gripped the arms of his chair. “Like Sam just said, shit is going to hit the fan –“

“Oh, please,” Nat said, leaning back in her own chair. “They’re cupcakes, they’ll sell themselves. And we’re looking at a few hundred dollars a month, at least, that we can invest back in the salon. Didn’t you say you wanted to put in new tubs this winter?”

“Yeah, but,” Bucky said, his voice quickly faltering as he struggled to find a convincing excuse. “We don’t know these women. Who knows what they –“

“What, you’re implying they have some kind of hidden agenda?” Nat quipped immediately. “They want to sell cupcakes. That’s all.”

Bucky took in a deep breath, holding it there as his brain continued to grasp desperately for something to say that made sense.

It couldn’t find anything.

Nat sighed, shaking her head at him.

“Tell me what this is really about,” she said evenly.

Bucky swallowed, trying to find a better alternative to blurting out the truth. He wasn’t even sure exactly what the problem was – it was just a knee-jerk reaction, a twist in his gut, at the thought of her happily delivering fresh cupcakes to his salon on a regular basis. At that alluring smile, that genuine sense of warmth, that lipstick, that, that – that keen awareness that made him feel off balance.

“Is this because she was flirting with Steve?” Nat asked, finally, firmly, when he failed to answer.

His jaw dropped, eyes widening.

“You think she was flirting?” he asked, suddenly leaning forward. “Did you – did you hear what they said?”

He realized his mistake immediately, cringing inside as Nat, satisfied, slowly leaned back in her chair.

“I can’t make you stop being a jealous, insecure idiot about this,” she said, after a long moment had passed. “But I can stop you from making stupid business decisions. We’re selling the woman’s cupcakes, and that’s final.”

Bucky’s mouth fell open, and he stuttered, choking on words that he knew wouldn’t make a difference even if he did say them out loud. Like the fact that he owned the place, for example, and that no decision was final until he made it final, and –

“I’m not being an idiot,” he said helplessly instead, ignoring the way Nat rolled her eyes. “No, listen. I’m being realistic. I can’t just – ask him out. If I wanted to ask him out, which I’m not admitting to. You know that.”

“Do I?” she questioned, her face unnervingly calm. “What did he ask you? At the party?”

“At the party?” he repeated. The conversation was suddenly moving too fast for him, and he struggled, for a moment, to even remember. At least, anything past the strawberry popsicle. “I don’t know, he – he asked me if I wanted kids.”

Nat raised an eyebrow, and Bucky threw up his hands.

“What? That’s not,” he said, spitting out the words in frustration. “He wasn’t – we were surrounded by kids, okay? At a kid’s birthday party. So he was thinking about kids and we were having a polite conversation.”

“He was vetting you,” Nat said evenly, as Bucky stood suddenly, giving his body the freedom to pace.

“You’re reading into it because you want something to happen,” he said, nearly growling out the words.

“He likes you so much he doesn’t even want to just jump you, he wants to see if you could make it in the long run. If you want the same things out of life. If you could have a future –“

“Oh god, you don’t,” he said, resisting the urge to literally reach up his hands and fist them into his hair. “You don’t know that, Nat. Unless he literally said that to your face, you don’t know that. You’re so far ahead of yourself it’s ridiculous.”

“I’m ridiculous?” she repeated incredulously. “You’re so hell-bent on believing he could never be interested in you, Bucky, you’d completely miss it if he was trying to hit on you. The poor boy would have to literally rip off his shirt and bend over to get through to you.”

“Don’t talk about him that way,” he said, his voice rising an octave. “Like he’s some kind of sex object. It’s disrespectful.”

Nat whistled lowly at that, throwing up her hands.

“Well, he is a sex object to some people,” she said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. “At least, to the woman who’s going to be showing up on our doorstep every morning with doggie cupcakes.”

“Is this a joke to you?” Bucky hissed, abruptly ceasing his pacing so that he could advance toward the desk, leaning down toward her. “Is this funny to you, trying to get us together? Tell me what happens when I do ask him on a date and we do go out and then two weeks before Christmas it all fucking falls apart and he quits and we’re out a bather and the salon is completely fucked. Tell me how that isn’t a stupid business decision, Natasha.”

“I’m your friend first,” Nat said – quickly, before he could jump in and cut her off. “I want you to spend your Christmas morning exchanging gifts naked in bed. And I don’t mean the magical Christmas years from now when you’ve finally decided that you’re worth the love of another human being, I mean this Christmas. This Christmas.”

Bucky opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. He was stunned.

The bell on the front door chimed. Long seconds passed in silence.

“He’s a student, he needs a job,” he finally said, voice stiff. “And I like him, Nat, I do. I like him. So I’m not going to fuck him over.”

He turned around, bracing himself to greet the customer who’d just shuffled inside the door. He could feel her eyes burning into his back as he walked away.

 

 

* * *

 

Random notes:

I meant to include more Steve/Bucky interaction in this chapter, but it got long. Next time!

Also, an aside: even though it was only a brief mention in this chapter, nailing down the details of Bucky's last Thanksgiving at a Chinese restaurant led me to google his Chinese zodiac sign. Which naturally led me to google Steve's also and, because I am not at all a fangirl, Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan's.

I don't know if this is true in New York or in other countries, but going back to my childhood every cheap Chinese restaurant I've ever set foot in has had this specific cheap paper placemat with the Chinese zodiac signs printed on it:

According to this magical placemat:

Bucky Barnes is a Snake: Wise and intense with a tendency toward physical beauty. Vain and high tempered. The Boar is your enemy. The Cock or Ox are your best signs.

Steve Rogers is a Horse: Popular and attractive to the opposite sex. You are often ostentatious and impatient. You need people. Marry a Tiger or Dog early, but never a Rat.

Sebastian Stan is a Dog: Loyal and honest you work well with others. Generous yet stubborn and often selfish. Look to the Horse or Tiger. Watch out for Dragons.

Chris Evans is a Cock: A pioneer in spirit, you are devoted to work and quest after knowledge. You are selfish and eccentric. Rabbits are trouble. Snakes and Oxen are fine.

So, according to this, Chris Evans would be compatible with Bucky Barnes and Sebastian Stan would be compatible with Steve Rogers. But Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are not compatible with each other. And, because I am a Rabbit, I am "trouble" for Chris Evans. Which I kind of like the idea of.

I've always been really proud to be a Rabbit. "Luckiest of all signs, you are also talented and articulate. Affectionate, yet shy, you seek peace throughout your life. Marry a Sheep or Boar. Your opposite is the Cock."

Oh, silly magical Chinese placemat. Don't they say opposites attract?


	8. Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retriever

Natasha’s words bothered him. It didn’t help that he tried, almost obsessively, not to let them. 

More than anything, they angered him, a low, simmering anger that lingered in the days that followed, burning embers that flicked back to life over and over again in the ashes of his heart. 

Wasn’t it enough that he would be alive next Christmas? Because that was what he fell back on, when he felt himself crumbling with inadequacy – that was the ultimate triumph, his stubbornness’ finest accomplishment. That he kept on living.

He liked Christmas, he did, he looked forward to it, and now Nat had gone and planted the seed to ruin it. Why couldn’t it be enough, knocking on her apartment door every year with poorly wrapped presents falling out of his arms? Listening with one ear as Sofia excitedly showed him each one of her gifts from Santa, nodding along as he sipped the spiked hot chocolate Nat would’ve slipped into his hand – wasn’t that enough for the most trumped-up holiday of the year?

It was true, that the moments no one saw were – a little empty. Warm, but a little empty. Allowing Butterscotch to steal some of his scrambled eggs because it was a holiday, stamping an adhesive bow to his head and grinning as he watched him try to knock it off with his paws. Sure, that wasn’t a Christmas anyone would write a sappy ballad about, but it was – good.

It was better, than the Christmas mornings that had come before. The ones where he’d been too hungover to move. The ones where he hadn’t, in fact, moved, letting Christmas morning fade into Christmas afternoon, his cell phone on silent, his blinds closed to the snow.

And now Nat had gone and shot a hole in all that success, with her suggestion that he could have more. That he should have more. That he should have a Steve to wake up to, naked in his bed.

Her image, not his, but it was hard to bleach out none the less. It was almost as if he’d created the fantasy himself – that’s how difficult it was to un-imagine. He could practically see it – the gentle rise and fall of Steve’s bare chest, his legs twisted into the sheets, the little smile that would grace his lips when he leaned over and kissed his shoulder, his neck, his jaw, to wake him.

It was cruel, that she’d planted the idea. It stung. It wasn’t fair – rubbing it in his face like that, what she had and what he didn’t. What almost everyone he knew had, if he was honest.

So he let his anger burn slowly, keeping the conversations they shared at work clipped. Days passed – Steve missed another shift, and Bucky nearly relented in his quest not to speak to her unnecessarily, just to ask if he was all right.

But he was, it turned out, when he finally showed up again mid-week. Never mind the fact that he was pale as a Bichon, blue eyes haggard with exhaustion, the skin beneath them purple-grey. Bucky nearly sent him back home again, would have, in fact, if it weren’t for the single-minded way he hung up his coat and stomped to the back room in a fury of determination.

Now it was Saturday, nearly a week later, and Bucky was holed up in his office, trying not to look too outwardly miserable as he watched through the door while Peggy and Steve worked together to set up her little cupcake display. He was trying to be reasonable about the whole thing – he was, truly – but the way Steve lit up at her every remark, alternating between a broad smile and flustered looks to the side, made his stomach turn.

He almost didn’t mind – almost – when Natasha was suddenly looming in the doorway, blocking the view.

“It looks nice, doesn’t it?” she asked, leaning her lithe body against the frame.

He pursed his lips, lifting his coffee cup to his lips before lowering it again – his stomach made another lurch, and he swallowed his spit instead.

“It’s taking up a lot of counter space,” he answered, not bothering to mask the darkness in his voice. He didn’t have time to fake excitement for the cupcakes, not on a weekend, not when he’d been overbooked with a matted Goldendoodle and two Cavaliers and a Maltese that liked to bite for its front legs –

He glanced up, startled by the sound of the office door clicking shut.

“I thought about what I said,” Natasha began, walking toward the desk. She stopped short of getting too close. “I’m sorry.”

Liar, his mind hissed immediately, but it was too late – he was listening. He could count the times on one hand that he’d heard his salon manager utter an apology.

“You meant what you said,” he offered, keeping his voice skeptical.

“In a way I did,” she said, sinking down slowly into one of the chairs across from him. “But then I started thinking about how far you’ve come. You started this business, you still have a lot on your plate … and you don’t need a lover to be happy.”

He looked down, licking his lips slowly. Part of him wanted to argue, to find something to throw back in her face – but her words were careful and sincere, and they utterly shut him up.

“My point was not,” she continued, leaning back slowly. “That you need someone. It was that, if you did want to be with someone –“

Here Bucky raised his eyes and stared forward, almost as if he could gaze through the office wall and at the two people, chatting away happily, behind it –

“- that you don’t cheat yourself out of it,” she finished succinctly. “You deserve companionship.”

“I deserve companionship?” he repeated. He sighed, forcing himself to stare instead into the hell that was his schedule for the day. “God, you sound like my old therapist at the fuckin’ VA.”

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Natasha smiled wryly.

“Fine,” she said lowly. “You deserve companionship, but also sex. Lots of good, dirty, can’t sit properly for a week –“

“This is sounding less and less like an apology,” he muttered, cutting her off as her smirk deepened.

“Maybe it was less of an apology and more of a clarification,” she offered, shrugging her shoulders. “Anyway – I know your first dog is already waiting. We should probably start the day.”

“Which is already fucked,” Bucky murmured, giving his schedule one last hateful glare before standing. He froze, the office swaying around him, and he gripped the back of his chair to ground himself.

Natasha, also in the process of standing, paused, narrowing her eyes at him.

“You all right?” she questioned, frowning.

“Fine,” he grunted, sucking in a slow, even breath. “I just – didn’t eat much this morning.”

“We can send Steve for some food,” she said slowly, still eyeing him carefully up and down. He shook his head, barging his way past her.

“The hell we can, he’s booked solid, too,” he said, opening the office door. “I’ll be fine until lunch. I’m just – tired, I don’t know.”

It was impossible to walk to the back without first walking past the cupcake display, which Steve and Peggy were both standing a few feet back from and quietly admiring, satisfied smiles on their faces.

“What do you think?” Peggy asked him cheerfully, turning toward him as he shut the office door. Too cheerfully, in his opinion, for this early in the morning.

It was, he had to admit, not – horrible. The cupcakes were lined up on two short shelves, four across and three deep, enclosed in their own mini display case. The paper wrappers had little paw prints on them, and the swirls of peanut butter frosting were topped with a single, tiny dog biscuit, artfully askew.

If he had a dog, and if he were standing at the counter with money in his hand, he had to admit it would’ve been tempting to throw one in with his bill. 

“Very, uhh, nice,” he said, unwilling to offer more of a compliment. He tried to smile at the two of them, but he didn’t want to look at Steve’s face, not then, not with Peggy at his side, and the florescent lights above them were suddenly seeming very, very bright.

“I’m glad you like it,” Peggy began, and she was clearly about to say more, but Bucky found himself weakly raising a hand to stop her.

“I’m sorry, I have,” he began, swallowing hard. “Just – so much work to do today, it’s Saturday and I’m overbooked and – Natasha can help you, if –“

“Oh, of course,” Peggy said, drawing back a little. 

“Have a good day,” he quipped automatically, giving her the kind of quick, impersonal smile he reserved for customers. The pale brown color of the frosting was making him feel sick.

Relieved to have ended the conversation, Bucky turned away, walking quickly to the back. Behind the door, it was still quiet, the room not yet filled with barking, yipping dogs and running water and the thunder of running dryers.

Only, instead of calming him, the room retained the same bright glow around the edges that he’d felt in the salon, under the bright lights. The quiet did nothing to calm his stomach, which still lurched despite the lack of cupcakes, and Steve’s blushing attempts to look away from Peggy, staring him in the face.

He braced himself with a hand against the wall, leaning forward and breathing in slowly. He swallowed, but his mouth was watering, disgustingly filled with warm spit.

The door swung open, and Steve walked in briskly with a chocolate lab at his heels. He frowned, freezing the moment he saw him.

“Bucky,” he said, his voice slow and dumbfounded with concern. “Are you –“

But he didn’t hear Steve finish, because that was the moment when he rushed forward, bending over the trash can and heaving up his coffee, mostly, and what few scraps of eggs he’d managed to swallow down that morning.

He swallowed, gagging on the acid before spitting out as much of his mouth as he could. He ran a hand back over his mouth, wiping away the vomit that clung there before realizing just how disgusting that was.

There was movement behind him – a kennel door opening and closing, then a real door, fast footsteps – but it was all he could do to pant over the trash, gathering his breath and slowly finding the will to stand upright again.

But before he could do that, Natasha was suddenly pushing open the door and rushing toward him.

“Steve told me you – oh you really did, didn’t you? Here, here’s a bottled water from the fridge.”

He took it blindly, ripping off the cap and swirling some in his mouth before spitting it out into the trash. Then he took a small sip, forcing himself to swallow. He wanted to look Natasha in the eye, but his suddenly felt heavy, like someone had draped a hot wet washcloth over his forehead.

“How long have you been feeling sick?” she asked. Or, well, demanded, judging by her tone.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled weakly. And he didn’t – yeah, he’d felt a little off that morning, but he usually felt grumpy and tired any morning he had to rush off to work. And then Peggy had been talking to Steve, and he didn’t look for more of an explanation than that. “This morning maybe?”

“This morning maybe?” Natasha repeated accusingly. Why was she so damn angry? “If you felt sick this morning, then what are you doing here?”

She paused, waiting for an answer, then sighed when all he could do was hover helplessly over the trash.

“Well,” she said, her voice softening a little. “It doesn’t really matter, I guess, because you’re leaving now.”

Something clicked in his mind at those words, and he raised his head unsteadily, shaking it.

“What?” he asked, clutching the bottle of water hanging from his hand. “Nat, I can’t – it’s Saturday – and that Goldendoodle –“

“I don’t know what we’re going to do but it’s not your problem anymore,” she said, reaching out and attempting to take his arm. He shrugged her off, and she sighed, herding him forward toward the door anyway. 

“You can’t take them all,” he muttered, looking back in an attempt to meet her eyes. “You’ll have to cancel some of them. And that lady with the Maltese is a real –“

“Not your problem,” she said, following him as he drifted back into the salon. Peggy, thankfully, was gone – but Steve, at the counter, perked up at his presence, watching him attentively as he walked forward. “I told you. I’ll handle it. I’ll do what I have to do, but you are going home.”

“You guys are gonna be swamped,” he continued, ignoring how whiny and, frankly, pathetic his voice now sounded. “And Sam is gonna be pissed if you call him in, he’s looking at venues with Riley today –“

“You’re right,” Nat said, rounding on him and standing firmly in his way. He stopped, surprised – not a pleasant feeling, when your head was already swimming. “You should stay. Stay, and puke on all of your dogs, and then at the end of the day I’ll take whatever Godforsaken virus you picked up back to my daughter, infant son, and their father. Is that what you want?”

He frowned – he hadn’t thought about getting anyone else sick, especially Sofia or Nathaniel or Clint. He hadn’t even realized, until he’d thrown up, that he even was.

“I didn’t think about –“ he started hazily, but Natasha was already herding him again toward the office, picking up his coat for him and holding it out.

“Go,” she said, folding her arms in front of her chest as soon as he clumsily took it. “And don’t you dare take the subway. Hail a cab. I’ll be watching from in here.”

He nodded, weakly, overwhelmed by a combination of guilt, confusion, and vision-blurring heat.

“Okay,” he mumbled. He turned to walk out the door, resigned, and heard a soft voice call out behind him.

“Feel better,” it said, almost as quiet and unsure as his.

Steve. He turned around, smiling weakly at him, the warmth of his fever dulling his inhibitions, before pulling open the door.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“Scotch, get over here and cuddle with me,” Bucky said weakly, slapping a hand on his chest.

On the other end of the couch, Butterscotch twitched an ear toward him, briefly sparing him a glance before yawning and settling his head back down on his front paws.

He sighed, throwing off his blanket for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon. Or night – it was probably night at this point, judging by the darkness growing behind his pulled curtains, but he’d been fighting to avoid staring at his phone.

He’d texted Nat almost as soon as he walked back into his apartment, asking for an update on rescheduling his clients. Maddeningly, she refused to give him any details, instead sending him responses like “drink lots of water” and “if you don’t take care of yourself you’ll be out all week so get your shit together and stop texting me”.

This led him to finally settle on the couch and force himself to watch television, getting up only to crank the A.C. (utility bill be damned) and, twenty minutes later, rummage through his closet to fetch a blanket and then, another twenty minutes later, pull his sweaty shirt over his head in disgust and toss it across the living room.

“Stop shirking your cat responsibilities,” he muttered, narrowing his eyes at Butterscotch, whose own eyes were now pleasantly closed. “It’s your duty to cuddle me. Start pulling your weight or I’m replacing you with a puppy. A very energetic puppy that will never, ever leave you alone.”

Content that he’d made his threat clear, he shifted back toward the TV screen, sighing again. Being sick was an odd combination of surreal, annoying and boring, but mostly boring – he could only watch so much History channel before his mind overloaded on information.

There was a soft knock on the door.

In unison, Bucky and the cat jerked their heads up, just far enough to see the top corner of the door over the couch.

“Did you order pizza?” he asked, glaring at him accusingly. Startled from his nap, Butterscotch sat up, stretching as he continued to stare at the door.

Bucky slowly shifted up, too. He was tempted at first to shout that whoever it was had the wrong door, but then it occurred to him that it might be Natasha, coming to check up on him. It would make sense, given her mother hen instructions on how to survive a fever.

The knock came again, a little louder this time.

“I’m coming, God,” he muttered, arching his back and grunting as he stood. “Hold your fucking horses.”

He wound his way through the living room, throwing open the door.

His face fell, and his hand gripped the doorknob like a vice.

It wasn’t Natasha. It was Steve, looking oddly just as surprised, blue eyes widening a little as he looked him over, a bulging brown paper bag held against his chest.

“Hey,” he said sheepishly, adjusting the weight of the bag, when a few moments had passed and it was clear Bucky was only going to continue gaping down at him. “I – I’m sorry, I know you’re sick and you weren’t expecting anyone but Natasha –“

Bucky finally released the doorknob, his feverish mind racing with panic. His hair was loose and messed up from hours of restless rolling on the couch, he was sweaty and probably smelled bad and fuck he wasn’t even wearing a shirt –

“- was saying how you probably didn’t have soup in your apartment and she wanted to bring you something to eat because she was worried, but it was getting late and she had to get home to feed Nathaniel so I said –“

Steve was talking a mile a minute, and Bucky fought to follow him, blinking slowly as he tried to make his mind think, think, of what to do, only there were no real choices to make since he was essentially paralyzed, forced to stand patiently in the doorway until Steve stopped talking.

“- I could pick up something for you and bring it to you and she gave me your address and said your buzzer was broken and I didn’t even think about texting you first until I left work but then I didn’t have your number –“

Bucky let his eyes drift hazily down to the paper bag, putting the pieces together and realizing that he should probably say something.

“You brought me food?” he questioned dumbly.

Steve opened his mouth, then hesitated, looking down at the bag as if trying to gather himself.

“Yeah,” he said, after an unsteady pause. “It’s a little weird but it’s – hot and sour soup? That’s what I always eat, when I’m sick. Eating spicy things is supposed to be good when you’re running a temperature.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, frowning. Some of his initial panic was ebbing, replaced by the warm haziness of his fever. 

“It might be an old wives’ tale, I don’t really know, I never researched it, but,” Steve continued, shifting the bag and its contents again. “I don’t know, I – even if it’s just in my head, it seems to help.”

“That looks heavy,” Bucky commented, eyes drifting again to the bag. “Did you wanna come inside and set it down?”

“Oh,” Steve said, eyes widening a little again. “Oh, uhm – yeah, sure.”

Bucky stepped back from the door, opening it a little wider for him and watching as Steve stepped inside, walking to his kitchen counter and carefully beginning to open the bag. As he shut the apartment door, he vaguely realized that he could’ve just taken the bag himself and sent Steve away with a thank you.

Cringing as he watched Steve unpack the bag – maybe he hadn’t wanted to be invited inside, maybe Bucky had been presumptuous and he was just being nice – he desperately thought of what he could say that would send the message to Steve that he was free to leave at any moment.

“I can do that,” he said, approaching the kitchen, but almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Steve brought up his hand and shoo’d him away.

“It’s gone cold since I picked it up, it needs to be reheated,” he said, pulling out a handful of fortune cookies and setting them aside. “Go sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”

Bucky immediately opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Something about Steve’s voice was oddly authoritative – commanding, almost. He’d never heard him say anything quite that way in the salon.

“Okay,” he said instead, the word slipping out automatically. “I’ll just – go put a shirt on.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve said, and Bucky looked up in surprise. Their eyes met, and suddenly Steve was looking down again, twisting a plastic-wrapped spoon in his hands. “I mean, that’s not what I – you should do whatever makes you comfortable. But if you’re hot because you have a fever –“

“I think I’ve experienced every human variation on temperature in the past eight hours, so –“ Bucky said, backing toward the living room and hoping his thrown shirt hadn’t landed somewhere particularly humiliating, like on a lampshade “ – I’m actually getting kind of cold again.”

“Oh,” Steve said, shrugging and still not looking at him. “All right.”

Bucky took that opportunity to slink into the living room, frantically looking around until he spotted his shirt on the floor. He picked it up, pulling it quickly over his head. The statement that he was cold was a lie – he could feel sweat beginning to bead up on his forehead – but Steve didn’t need to know that. Or be able to look him over too closely.

He sat down awkwardly on the couch, shooting Butterscotch a panicked look as he listened to Steve open and close his cupboards and then, a moment later, open and close the microwave. When he finally heard footsteps behind him, he took in a quick breath, trying to look invested in whatever show was playing on TV.

“Here,” Steve said, reappearing from behind the couch, and Bucky reached back for the bowl and spoon he held, taking them carefully.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he muttered, even as he watched Steve settle on the far side of the couch, Butterscotch sandwiched between them.

“It’s not a problem,” Steve said. He stretched out his hand, smiling a little as Butterscotch hesitantly crouched forward to sniff it. “Especially since I was probably the one who got you sick in the first place. Who’s this little guy?”

“Oh, that’s Scotch,” Bucky said, cursing himself as soon as he realized he was suggesting that he’d named his cat after booze. “I mean – Butterscotch, his name is Butterscotch, but I call him – yeah.”

“He’s cute,” Steve said. Butterscotch apparently approved of his fingers, because he curved his head in, rubbing his chin against his hand. “It’s kind of funny that you have a cat, when you groom dogs all day.”

“I’d like to get a dog,” Bucky replied, watching as Steve began petting Butterscotch in slow, calming strokes. “It’s just a lot of responsibility. Hey, he really likes you.”

“Looks like it,” Steve said back lightly, his smile widening as Butterscotch arched his back into his hand. He lifted his eyes to Bucky. “So you don’t want anything tying you down, huh?”

“No, it’s not that,” Bucky started, flustered. He lifted his spoon toward the bowl of soup, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be eating. “It would just be a big change. But in a good way. It’d be nice to come home to someone who was actually excited to see me.”

“What, Butterscotch doesn’t greet you at the door?” Steve asked, looking down again at the cat. Even a few feet away, Bucky could hear his purr kick up a notch.

“Hell no,” he muttered. “I think I intruded on his solitude when I came home this morning. He must know I’m sick because he refuses to cuddle with me, even though I’ve been alone on this couch all day.”

“Awe,” Steve said, rubbing pointedly behind Butterscotch’s ears. “I can’t imagine someone not wanting to cuddle with you.”

Bucky’s lips fell open at that, and he froze with a full spoon halfway to his lips. Then, realizing what he was doing, he quickly shoved it into his mouth, watching as Steve suddenly turned his eyes toward the coffee table.

“Hey, what’s this?” he asked quickly, pulling one of the thicker books toward him.

Bucky swallowed, barely tasting the soup in his haste to answer.

“It’s an encyclopedia of dog breeds,” he said hurriedly, keeping his eyes on the book as Steve opened it over his lap. “When I was training to be a groomer, our instructor would quiz us on the breeds in our downtime. There are still a lot I’ve never seen.”

“Really?” Steve asked, looking up at him quickly before turning another page in the book. “Wow. I never realized there were so many.”

“Cover up the name and show me one of the pictures,” Bucky said, taking another swallow of soup and savoring it a little more this time. “I bet I can tell you what breed it is.”

“Any of these?” Steve questioned, hesitantly fanning through the pages.

“Try me,” he answered, leaning back and feeling oddly confident. He blamed it on the fever. “Any dog.”

Steve drew up the book so he couldn’t see the pages, giving him an unconvinced quirk of his eyebrow as he looked through them.

“This one,” he said finally, turning the book to face Bucky and keeping his hand pressed over the title of the page. On it was a large picture of a dog with long grey hair, tinged with creamy white on the face and chest.

“That’s easy,” Bucky said, shrugging his shoulders. “Lowchen.”

He couldn’t help but grin as Steve’s mouth fell open, and he turned the book back to stare at the picture incredulously.

“How did you –“ he started, frowning as he gawked, baffled, down at the page. “I’ve never even heard of that breed.”

“It gets one of the most hideous haircuts I’ve ever seen,” Buffy scoffed, lifting his bowl of soup again. “Impossible to forget. Pick something harder.”

Steve shot him what appeared to be a dirty look – it was hard to tell, with the book blocking out most of his face – as he started to page through it again. Finally, he settled on another one.

“This one,” he said, turning the book around again and revealing a picture of a sturdy dog with long hair in vibrant red-gold.

“Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retriever,” Bucky said immediately, easing into a cocky smirk.

“That’s,” Steve started, cutting himself off as he turned the book back to himself. “I don’t get it. It looks exactly like a Golden retriever.”

“The ears are bigger in proportion to the face,” Bucky said, his grin widening at the increasingly baffled look on Steve’s face. “And the color is pretty unique, although you do see some reddish Goldens.”

“You must’ve had a lot of ‘downtime’ while you were at school,” Steve muttered, already thumbing frantically through the book looking for his next pick.

“Nah,” Bucky answered, swallowing another mouthful of soup. “You have an eye for art. I have an eye for good breeding.”

Steve scoffed at that, and he leaned back further into the couch cushion, bowl of soup in hand, as he waited for him to choose the next breed.

Bucky didn’t know how long the game went on after that. He correctly guessed the next few breeds – Puli, Affenpincher, Glen of Imaal Terrier – until he finally confused an Alaskan Klee Kai for an Alaskan Malamute.

“The Klee Kai has a much fluffier tail,” Steve said triumphantly. “Obviously.”

Bucky laughed at that, and as he finally set his empty bowl aside, he hazily appreciated how genuine it was, and how oddly comfortable he was feeling. It may have been the fever, or the food coma, or both, but as they continued to move through the book, the pauses between dogs started to feel more and more like opportunities to just stare in appreciation at Steve – his determined expression as he thought through which breed to choose next, the way his brow furrowed in frustration when Bucky guessed right –

“Okay, this one,” Steve said, flipping the book around quickly.

“Water dog,” Bucky said immediately.

“What kind of water dog?” Steve asked slowly.

“Portuguese,” he grinned.

“Damn it,” Steve muttered, flipping the book around again.

At some point, Bucky found himself sleepily debating in his mind whether the dog version of Steve Rogers would be a Saluki – with its lithe, elegant body and gorgeous bone structure – or a Golden retriever, because of his smile and the color of his hair.

He yawned, letting his thoughts drift until Steve finally closed the book and set it aside on the coffee table. The game had lost its novelty, but they’d kept going past the point when both of them realized it, Bucky – at least – not quite wanting to end.

Now he was lowering his eyes, waiting for Steve to stand and say something about how it was late and he really needed to go.

Instead, he watched him as he turned toward the TV, which had been playing softly in the background since he’d shown up.

“Oh, hey,” he said, leaning back into the couch cushions. “House Hunters is on. I love this show.”

“Really?” Bucky asked sleepily, pulling a blanket around his shoulders. “Huh. Me too.”


	9. Chihuahua

It was hot. The heat seared down, penetrating the cement rooftop around him until it seeped back out in hazy waves that Bucky was half-sure he could really see. The thickness of his gear did little to protect him from it, trapping it instead inside every gap of space that existed between his skin and the fabric. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his back, the bend of his elbows, his knees – anywhere it could be sucked down by gravity.

He took in a steadying breath – he couldn’t pass out, not yet. It should be soon.

He shifted the weight of the rifle against his shoulder, swallowing against the dryness of his throat. And then, as if he’d willed it into existence, it happened. The target, walking into view on the street.

Immediately his eye was pressed against the sight, finger tense above the trigger. He took a moment to identify, and yes, it was him, the right face, the right features –

But something was wrong. Trailing at his side was a child, a little boy, not more than six years old, hand tucked inside that of the target.

For a moment, he hesitated – drew his eye back from the sight, blinked against the sweat beading his forehead. He could consider aborting, but that would go against orders – they’d been tracking the target for weeks –

He bent back to the gun, following the target in the crosshairs. An easy shot, clean, straight through the forehead. Next to the man, the child stumbled, and he was roughly pulled up.

The heat beat down on him, suffocating, a vice on his throat. He had seconds, seconds, until the target walked out of view, he had orders –

Slowly, he tensed his finger further, drawing it back. Closing his eyes was not an option. He had to see it, make it good; he couldn’t afford to miss –

The shot went off. He didn’t hear the gun fire, but somehow he heard the slow crumple of a body. And then the screaming, high-pitched, wild, howling, cutting through the heat like a knife –

He jerked awake, taking in a shuddering breath. The screaming, it was – his mouth was still hanging open. It was him. It was coming from him.

Swaying, he pulled himself up – whatever was beneath him wasn’t his bed, it sucked him in, too soft, the couch cushions dragging down his limbs – and he threw off a blanket. Cool air rushed in, making him shiver violently –

“Bucky,” a voice said. He raised his eyes, trembling, mouth still frozen open in horror – it was Steve, Steve, who shouldn’t be here. Why was he here, in his living room, on his couch, here, his blond hair disheveled, his face a mirror of his own, tense with fear? “Bucky, you – you had a nightmare –“

“What are you doing here?” he asked. He couldn’t help how rough his voice was, how loud – the scream was still ringing in his ears, drowning out the tense silence around him. “What are you –“

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I brought you some food and I fell asleep, I didn’t mean to,” Steve said, the words rushing out of him. Bucky let his eyes twitch to the coffee table, to the empty bowl with a spoon balanced inside it, to the neat pile of books that was now oddly askew. “Bucky, you were – you were yelling something – I think you were having a –“

Bucky stood up, ignoring the rush of dizziness the sudden movement brought to his head. He circled away from the couch, breaking eye contact with Steve, panic hammering hard in his chest. He couldn’t remember what Steve was doing here, and the most important thing was just to get away, to get away for a moment so he could breathe, breathe and then later think, think, so he could remember what –

But he heard Steve stand behind him, heard footsteps follow him.

“Are you all right?” he was asking, his voice far away. “Bucky, are you –“

He sucked in a deep breath, as deep as he could, as soon as he reached the kitchen, slumping down on his elbows over the counter. Next to him was a brown paper bag, opened, a receipt stapled to the top. Scattered next to it were fortune cookies wrapped in plastic.

Steve at his door. Steve, at his door, with hot and sour soup. Steve, grinning across from him, a book splayed open in his lap.

He took in another breath – he was still shaking, fuck, Jesus – and looked over his shoulder at the clock on the oven. The neon green numbers read 3:24.

“Fuck,” he sighed out loud. His mind was still racing, ignited with adrenaline, even though he could no longer remember the dream. It jumped between images of the night before – they’d been talking, watching House Hunters, he’d been listening to Steve talk about how he’d love a place with big windows and lots of natural light for painting and then he’d –

He must’ve fallen asleep. How could he have let himself just fall asleep?

“Can I do anything?” Steve asked softly. Bucky glanced up, even though he could barely look at him – he was still a cautious distance away. “I can – I could make you tea. If you wanted.”

He was calming down, but marginally, his breath coming back to him in slow increments. But it wasn’t enough – not with Steve standing there, watching him, waiting for him to act like a fucking human being who wasn’t completely losing his shit.

“No,” he said, realizing immediately how blunt and harsh it sounded. “I mean – I just – just give me a minute. I need a minute.”

“Okay,” Steve said, in the same tentative voice. Wounded, almost. “I’ll just – I’m gonna go sit back on the couch, okay? Just take however much time you need.”

Bucky took in another unsteady breath at that, pulling himself up and walking briskly – because he couldn’t run, even if that’s what he felt like doing – to the bathroom, shutting the door behind himself with exaggerated care.

As soon as he was alone, he let a shudder run through him, the tension in his body shattering. He knew he had only minutes to pull himself together – he couldn’t keep Steve sitting awkwardly in his living room, not at four fucking o’clock in the morning – and he intended to make the most of it.

He bent over the sink, hurriedly turning on the water – cold, cold worked best – and splashing it up into his face as he focused on his breathing again. Breathing slow, breathing even. Catching his breath would be the first step.

The second would be getting rid of Steve without making himself look like a complete and total asshole. Because he wanted him to go, badly – he needed him to go – but he also wished he could make him understand why.

That wasn’t happening, though. He wasn’t up for that conversation, on any level. Somehow he knew Steve wouldn’t push him for an explanation, but there was no way to just casually drop the fact that he’d served and now, years later, he still struggled with crippling anxiety and nightmares that haunted him for days.

No – that would open a huge can of worms, hint at far, far more than he ever wanted Steve to know. Better just to get him out the door as quickly as possible. He’d deal with the fallout later.

He let the water drip over his face for a moment, heart finally slowing to something close to normal. He grabbed a towel, drying his face off quickly before steeling himself and opening the door.

Back in the living room, Steve was still waiting patiently, shoulders rigid, on the couch. He turned around, standing as he watched Bucky approach.

“I’m sorry,” he started, before Bucky could say a word. “I shouldn’t have – I must’ve been really tired from work. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about,” Bucky said immediately, caught a little off guard. After all, Steve hadn’t been the one screaming bloody murder. “It – it happens.”

Steve nodded, hesitating a moment before he responded.

“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about, either,” he said slowly. “Everyone has nightmares.”

Bucky held in his first response to that – how it was funny, but he couldn’t remember waking up regularly with nightmares that sent him into crippling panic attacks when he was in high school. It was only after the Army that he’d picked up that little trait. 

“Yeah,” he said instead, shrugging. “I guess. I’m just sorry I freaked you out.”

“You didn’t freak me out,” Steve said. He took a small step forward. “I just – are you feeling better? I could still make you that tea.”

Bucky swallowed, his mind briefly imagining how that might go, if he said yes. Sitting across from him again, tea in hand, the thousand things he didn’t want to say hanging between them in a suffocating, awkward silence.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I’m fine. Let me call you a cab.”

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

It was strange, how quickly his life faded back into the status quo after that. Somehow he’d expected that what had happened with Steve would act like a trigger for the rest of his world to start cracking at the seams, but after Bucky watched him walk down the silent hallway of his apartment building, it was simply – over.

He stayed home on Sunday, forbidden by Natasha to enter the salon until he could text her a photo of a thermometer with a reading of a normal temperature. He thought about faking it – he could just let it sit in some warm water, or something – but then he imagined Sofia or baby Nathaniel restless in bed with red cheeks, and thought better of it.

By the time he walked into his office on Monday, things almost felt like they could be normal again. Almost.

“So,” Nat said, tapping a pen against the desk as he hung up his coat. “You talked with Steve?”

He looked over his shoulder at her, narrowing his eyes.

“What do you mean, talked to him?” he asked slowly. “Is there something I’m supposed to talk to him about? I literally just walked in the door, Nat.”

“I know you know I know he brought you pity food,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“He told me how you orchestrated that, yes,” Bucky said, turning around fully to face her and crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“So,” she repeated, drawing out the word with an ‘o’ shape of her full lips. “How’d it go?”

Bucky licked his lips, shoulders stiffening up.

“It went –“ he began, faltering in frustration. “It was fine, okay? We just talked. Like people, like friends. No – whatever it is you’re suggesting. I started the day off vomiting in a trash can, if you remember correctly.”

“Something happened,” she said, stilling the pen in her hand, her voice darkening slightly.

“Why?” Bucky asked, ignoring the way his voice betrayed him by shooting up an octave. “Did he say something?”

“Not exactly,” Natasha said slowly, leaning back in her chair. “He just – casually asked yesterday if you’d been in the service. Too casually.”

Bucky hissed beneath his breath, willing his face to remain calm and not betray the alarm bells that were instantly going off in his mind. He must’ve said something, something before the screaming – he did that, talked during the nightmares, Nat had told him that.

He sighed, curling his hand into a slow fist.

“I had a nightmare, all right?” he began, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes widened in surprise. “We fell asleep watching House Hunters and I – I had a fucking nightmare and he was there when I woke up.”

It took a moment for this information to settle in before a slow smile crept over her face.

“Fell asleep watching House Hunters?” she repeated slowly. “What, like an old married couple?”

“It’s not what it –“ he started, huffing out a sigh and cutting himself off. “I invited him in and we talked for awhile and it was on and – I was sick, okay? I had a fucking fever. What did you tell him?”

Her smile faded a little at that, and she sat up a bit, eyes more serious.

“I said you were in the Army,” she said, her voice firm, but gentle. “But that’s all. No details. That’s your story to tell.”

“Damn right it is,” Bucky muttered, finally relenting and running a hand nervously back through his hair. “Did he say anything else?”

“No,” Natasha said, shaking her head softly. “He didn’t. Just took that piece of information in and dropped it. He seemed concerned, Bucky. Really worried.”

“If you’re implying that I sit him down and spill out all my dirty little secrets,” Bucky said tersely, swallowing as he raised his chin a little. “Don’t.”

Natasha sighed, pushing out her chair.

“I’m not,” she said, standing. “Everyone has a right to their secrets. I’m just saying that, if you’re assuming he’ll judge you, that he’ll look at you differently –“

“He’s a decent human being,” Bucky said rigidly. “I get it. That’s not the problem.”

Natasha shook her head, clearly biting back words before lifting her eyes again.

“Anyway,” she said, her lips quirking up into a small smile. “Got any big plans for Halloween? Because someone requested you, specifically, to accompany her while she goes trick-or-treating.”

Bucky let out a huff, unable to stop himself from returning the smile. Maybe that was exactly what he needed. A happy distraction to keep him from dwelling on what Steve, the decent human being, thought of him. Not that it made a difference one way or the other.

“Really?” he asked, letting his smile bloom into a full on grin. “Well, I was going to hit up the BDSM gay club in my sexy nurse outfit, but that’s an offer I can’t turn down.”

“Awe, the sacrifices you make for my baby,” Nat cooed back at him. “Wear the eyeliner again. It’s a good look for you. Doesn’t even have to be Halloween.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” Bucky said, shooting a quick look at the clock. “Shit. Better get out there.”

“After you, boss,” she chuckled. He ignored the firm swat on his butt, jerking forward and shooting her a dirty look instead.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

It would’ve been a lie to say he didn’t think about what had happened – didn’t panic a little when the next shift arrived where he was scheduled to work with Steve, didn’t force his voice to be extra dismissive when the other man asked, more carefully than usual, how he was doing.

He did think about it, but he hid it well. That was his one saving grace. And by the time he left the salon that day, having spent all of it tossing around meaningless conversation and wearing a casual smile – it was almost like the nightmare hadn’t happened at all.

He didn’t even need a costume, by the time Halloween arrived. He wore one twenty-four seven.

But when he knocked on Natasha’s door, hearing an immediate muffled scream come from inside, a scream that sounded suspiciously like his name – that smile was real.

“Uncle Bucky!” Sofia yelped, throwing herself on his legs as soon as Nat slowly opened the door. He looked down at her, grinning at the mountains of white tulle smushed around him.

“Look at you,” he said, straightening the tiara on her forehead. Her red hair was pulled up in a perfect bun, ringed with crystals and covered in silver glitter. He looked up for a moment, raising his eyebrows at Nat. “You’re the prettiest fairy I’ve ever seen, sweetheart.”

He glanced back down at Sofia, expecting a joyful affirmation – and cringed when he saw her nose turn up.

“I’m not a fairy!” she said, jerking back from him so quickly that her tiara tilted sideways again. “Fairies have wings!”

He looked back up at Natasha helplessly, frowning when she only rolled her eyes at him. Then he looked back down at Sofia’s outfit – the huge poofy skirt, the formal hair, the mountains of white –

“Oh,” he said, realization dawning on him. “Of course you’re not a fairy, you’re a – bride?”

Immediately her face lit up, and she nodded excitedly, snatching his hand and pulled him in the door past Natasha.

“But,” he said, looked back at her as she shut the door behind him. “What happened to the bunny cop?”

“Old news,” she said, a bit sourly. “We had Sam and Riley over for lunch the other day, and they mentioned the wedding – she’s been obsessed ever since. We have TLC on twenty-four seven. It’s hell.”

“I’m going to have a fall wedding and my centerpieces will be pumpkins!” Sofia said brightly, turning back to beam up at Bucky. “Not scary pumpkins, pumpkins with pretty flowers and the colors will be fall like, um, orange and purple and maybe brown but maybe not because brown is kinda ugly for a color –“

He sent another helpless look toward Natasha, who only shook her head slightly as he nodded along.

“Oh, wow,” he said. “You’ve been working hard planning, huh?”

“Oh yes,” Sofia said, throwing up her arms only to thrust them down again in her skirt. “I’m exhausted. Really, really exhausted. That means tired, Uncle Bucky.”

“I see,” he said, trying to hold back his laughter. “So – are you ready to take a break from all that planning and go trick-or-treating?”

“Yes!” she shrieked, face lighting back up. She ran to the living room, skipping back with a hollow plastic pumpkin, handle clutched in her hand. But she slowed, frowning, as she approached him again. 

“What?” he asked, back straightening up. 

“You don’t have a costume,” she pointed out, looking over his jeans and henley with a critical eye.

“Well,” he said awkwardly, “Adults don’t need to wear costumes on Halloween. Just kids.”

He shot Natasha another desperate look, one begging her to agree – but she only closed her arms in front of her chest, letting her lips curl into a cool, silent smirk.

“It’s okay,” Sofia said, after deliberating him for a moment. “I’ll make one for you!”

He cringed as she sprinted off to her room, turning narrowed eyes on his salon manager.

“You let that happen,” he accused sourly.

“Oh, hush,” she said, walking toward him. “It’s one night. She’s been so excited for this. You should’ve heard her all this week – Uncle Bucky this, Uncle Bucky that. Uncle Bucky’s going to take her to the houses with the best candy. Uncle Bucky’s going to scare away the ghosts and vampires and werewolves. Uncle Bucky’s going to think she looks so-so-pretty in her dress.”

“Well,” he said, heart softening a bit. “We probably won’t run into anyone I know. I guess.”

“I doubt it,” Natasha smiled. “You’re sweet to do this, you know that, right? She loves you.”

“Yeah,” he said, reaching around to rub at the back of his neck. “But shouldn’t – I mean, shouldn’t she be going out with you or Clint? I mean, I feel kind of – I don’t know, like I’m usurping your parenthood a little.”

“Clint helped find the dress and the tiara,” she said, a serene, reassuring smile taking over her face. “And I helped her get dressed and put up her hair. She knows we’re here all the time, and you can only be around sometimes. You’re special to her. We understand.”

Bucky smiled weakly at that, shrugging, as Sofia ran back excitedly into the room, the dress shuffling along with her. In her hand, she was clutching an assortment of barrettes, a cheap bouquet of fake flowers and – most strangely – a white pillowcase.

“Is that for me?” Bucky asked, gesturing toward it. “Are we gonna cut eyeholes in it, make me a ghost?”

Sofia frowned up at him, shaking her head emphatically. She motioned for him to crouch down.

He did, getting down first on one knee and then the other, bowing his head when Sofia none-too-elegantly shoved it down.

He waited, expecting the pillowcase to slip over his face – and was surprised when, instead, he felt it draped gently over his head, followed by a number of barrettes being pushed into his hair and clicked down.

He blinked as the fake flowers were shoved in his face and held there, expectantly, until he took them in his hand. Then Sofia stepped back, arms proudly on her waist as she appraised him.

“Mama, I jacked him up!” she said, beaming up at Natasha. 

“That you did, sweetie,” she said, circling around Bucky to stand at her daughter’s side, grinning down at him as he slowly stood.

Then it hit him – the pillowcase, clipped to his hair. The white pillowcase. The flowers in his hand.

“What does she mean, she jack me up?” he hissed, blinking in confusion. “Is she about to pull a knife on me?”

“It’s a term from those shows where they follow women hunting for a wedding dress,” Natasha grinned. “If they find one they like, but they’re hesitating on whether or not to buy it, the salesperson pushes them over the edge by dressing them up with a veil, jewelry, flowers, whatever. They call it jacking her up.”

“Now you’re a bride, too!” Sofia said, moving back in to wrap her arms back around his thighs. “We can get married together!”

“Oh god,” he sighed, wincing out at Natasha. “Shouldn’t – shouldn’t you tell her I would be a groom, if I were getting married? And wearing a suit?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Nat tuttered, pulling out her phone. “We’re teaching her that boys don’t necessarily have to grow up to marry girls – they can marry other boys if they want to, or girls can marry other girls. I’m sure you can get behind that message.”

“But –“ he squeaked, clutching the flowers desperately.

“Not to mention, we discourage enforcing rigid rules on gender expression,” she said, raising her phone slowly. “That’s just good parenting. How about a picture? Smile, Sofia!”

“What?” Bucky hissed. “No, no pict –“

But the camera on her phone flashed anyway, and he sighed, forcing his mouth into a grimace.

“It’s okay, Uncle Bucky,” Sofia said, smiling up at him, arms still tight around his legs. “You look very beautiful.”

 

\--- --- --- --- --- --- ---

 

“I have – “ Sofia began, peering down inside her hollow pumpkin, “Three Hershey’s chocolate bars, two Reeses, four Snickers, three regular M&M’s, two peanut – you can have those, Uncle Bucky, they’re gross –“

Bucky hummed in absent agreement, keeping a tight grip on Sofia’s hand. The sun had long set, and he pulled out his phone – only a short time until trick-or-treating officially ended for the night. Thank God.

Actually, it hadn’t been as bad as he’d imagined it would be. He got a few raised eyebrows from people walking past, spotting his faux veil and flowers, but they all looked away when he gave them a threatening look. Most people smiled at him as they opened their doors, probably believing him to be a sweet, pushover single Dad.

“We’re almost out of time, sweetheart,” he said. Her tiara was askew again, and he smiled to himself. “Which way should we go?”

“Um,” Sofia said, pausing at the street corner and lurching them, after a moment’s hesitation, to the right. “This way!”

Bucky let her lead, amusing himself by checking out the costumes of the other kids they passed. He saw a number of pint-size superheroes, mostly boys – that seemed to be the big thing, this year – and surprisingly, a few Elsas and Annas, though he was sure that movie had come out years before.

He even saw a kid dressed in a vest from the latest Jurassic Park movie, walking alongside what looked to be a little Chihauhua shoved into a bulky T-Rex costume.

He looked up, grinning despite himself, and realized they’d turned onto a street that was quickly becoming non-residential. A restaurant awing was lit up on the other end, an old-fashioned string of lights dangling from it and lighting up the people that lingered beneath.

“We can’t go this way, honey,” he said, talking down to Sofia in a hushed voice. “There are businesses down here. Businesses don’t give out candy, just houses with their porch lights on.”

“Maybe they can give us food instead!” Sofia said, smiling up at him excitedly. “Maybe they can give us – spaghetti!”

He sighed a little under his breath, pausing as he considered how to explain that this wasn’t exactly how trick-or-treating worked – and then he spotted them. A couple, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

His heart sank as he recognized who it was. Steve, in the thick coat he wore to work every day, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets as he looked at the ground in that shy way he had. Looking away from her – Peggy, her long, bare legs covered in an elegant red dress that fell beautifully over her curves.

“Uncle Bucky?” Sofia asked, and he looked back down at her, distracted. “Maybe spaghetti isn’t a good idea. It would be really messy in my bucket. Do you think they have fortune cookies?”

He opened his mouth to answer, even as his eyes drifted back up to the couple. Just in time to watch Peggy lean down, her hand drifting up to Steve’s cheek – and kiss him, purposefully, on the mouth.

“Uncle Bucky?” Sofia asked again, her voice climbing a few octaves in sudden concern. 

“Come on,” he said, tightening his grip on her hand. “There’s no trick-or-treating this way. We’re turning around.”

“But what about –“ she began hesitantly. 

“I told you, there’s no trick-or-treating at restaurants!” he snapped, swinging them both around and all but jogging for the street corner. He heard Sofia stumble softly behind him, the candy jostling in her bucket.

“Okay,” she mumbled, and he slowly his pace a little at the sullenness in her voice – but not by much. They could walk again when he’d turned the corner, and they were both safely out of sight.

Sofia was quieter after that, and so was he. She seemed to gradually forget, though, once they’d walked up a few more stoops and added several more handfuls of candy to her bucket. After that, it was hard to tell if he’d really hurt her feelings, or if she was just tired from a long night on her feet.

By the time he was knocking on Natasha’s door again, she was asleep, head slumped against his shoulder, body cradled against his chest beneath layers and layers of ridiculous glittery white fabric.

“Have a good time?” she asked softly. She was cradling Nathaniel against her breast, a blanket slung over her shoulder.

“Sure,” he mumbled. “Great. Got lots of candy. The good stuff, too – no fuckin’ Tootsie rolls.”

Something in Natasha’s face paused at that – his voice was too rough, he knew, he couldn’t fake it as well around Natasha as he could around Steve – but she didn’t say anything, only frowned, gesturing toward Sofia’s bedroom.

He laid her down on top of the sheets, pulling off the blanket to throw over her. He didn’t entertain the possibility of getting her out of the dress – not only would it definitely wake her up, he doubted, somehow, that she would allow it to happen anyway. He did pull away her shoes, though, and carefully slipped off the little tiara.

Her head drifted on the pillow as he tucked the blanket over her, her eyes opening just enough to take him in before sliding shut again.

“Uncle Bucky,” she sighed, murmuring his name so softly it was almost indecipherable. “When you get married can I – can I –“

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “It’s late.”

“Can I bake your cake?” she muttered. She blinked her eyes open again, and he sighed.

“Sure you can,” he answered. He swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. “You can pick out the flowers, too, all right? Go to sleep.”

“Mm’kay,” she sighed, rolling her cheek into the pillow. “You look so pretty, Uncle Bucky.”

He waited, expecting more murmured questions, but none came. Instead, her eyes stayed blissfully closed, her chest rising and falling slowly, evenly.

He watched her for a moment, then stood, walking quietly to the doorway. He slipped outside, shutting the door as silently as he could.

Then he reached up, tugging out the barrettes one by one, quickly, harshly, ignoring the little stabs of pain from the hair caught in them that he didn’t bother to weave free. The pillowcase slipped loose behind his head, and he caught it, closing his eyes.

He would try not to think about it. Eventually he’d have to see Steve, to hear it from his own mouth, and he’d have to pretend, then, that he was happy for him, because that was what friends did.

If he could even call himself Steve’s friend, he realized. They weren’t even close enough for that. They worked together, they were on friendly terms, but they weren’t actually –

But he would still pretend that he was happy for him, because Steve was a decent human being, and that’s what decent people did. 

He deserved at least that much from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... recent life changes have cut out my prime writing time (I now actually sleep until dawn, wtf). Hopefully I can manage to get used to writing at times other than 3am. Cross your fingers.
> 
> Also, I've realized that despite my promise of lots and lots of dogs the last few chapters have not had many. So I'll try to channel the love aspect of my love-hate relationship with my job and write more of them in again. Let me know if you have a favorite breed ...


	10. Toy Poodle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay - life continues to haunt me. But I hope this ridiculously long chapter helps make up for it.

In the end, Bucky decided, the universe was smiling on him after all. Steve was dating Peggy, but the timing was perfect, coinciding beautifully with the snowballing busyness that was the pre-holiday season.

It was the perfect excuse to work, work, work and work, and simultaneously not think.

And Steve was discreet, he reflected, rubbing tearless shampoo just beneath his Morkie’s eyes, gently scrubbing away the caked-on brown gunk with the edge of his fingernail. He swooped his hand back absently, rubbing her soapy ears for a moment, barely hearing it when she whined. He would never have pinned Steve for a kiss-and-tell kind of guy, anyway, but so far, he’d failed to so much as even casually mention his new relationship.

He sighed, scratching beneath his dog’s chin and working up more suds. Maybe it was like the way a couple didn’t announce a pregnancy until after the first trimester – they wanted to wait a little while, make sure it was really going to stick before letting everyone know. That way, no one would be sad for them if –

“Bucky,” Sam’s voice came, urgent and low as he stuck his head inside the bathing bunker. “Do they seriously want poodle feet on this Shih Tzu? Because that’s going to look ugly as hell.”

“No, I wrote those instructions just to fuck with you,” he said. He’d intended the words to be sharp and sarcastic, but they fell flat, falling out of his mouth with no venom. He sighed under his breath again. “Yeah, that’s what they want. I know it’s stupid. They said she chews her feet or something. Allergies.”

“Okay,” Sam said, shooting him a look that lingered just a little too long for Bucky’s liking. “Just wanted to double check, since it’s weird.”

He hummed something like an agreement, or maybe a dismissal, getting back to his thoughts as Sam disappeared again. Maybe Steve wasn’t going to tell them. Maybe he thought it was some kind of workplace dating taboo, even though the salon didn’t employ Peggy, technically. Or maybe he just didn’t want to flaunt his love life to his boss. This was just a job to him, after all –

“Bucky!” Nat’s voice clipped. He caught sight of a red blur at the corner of his vision as she thrust her head inside the room. “Are you almost done bathing? The three McCauley dogs just came in and I swear to God they smell like they’ve been rolling around in week old diapers and dead rats.”

“Uh-huh,” he said absently. He reached for the hose, testing the temperature of the water before turning it on his dog. Or maybe Steve was just a really private person. That seemed right, somehow.

“And the toy poodle’s owner called,” Nat continued, grabbing a towel from the shelf and tossing it toward him. He caught it absently. “She wants an ETA.”

“What?” he asked, perking up slightly as he rubbed the towel over his dog’s face. “She just dropped off forty five minutes ago, I quoted her two hours.”

“Yeah, well, she’s crazy,” Nat sighed, tapping her foot impatiently. “And she wants red bows in the ears this time. Not pink.”

“Great,” Bucky snapped, moving the towel down steadily over his dog’s back. “Because I have nothing to do this afternoon but make red fucking bows.”

“Make Steve do it,” Nat said, swooping in toward the tub as soon as he pulled his dog out of it, burrito-rolling her in the damp towel.

“Steve is busy too,” he said roughly. The Morkie squirmed in his grasp, and he squeezed her paws through the towel, drawing out some of the water. 

“It’s his job to be supporting us,” the salon manager continued, lifting her own dog, a ‘teddy bear’ something Bucky didn’t look at too closely, into the tub and switching on the water.

“Only when he isn’t fucked over himself,” Bucky replied, ignoring the too-rough edge to his tone. His dog continued to squirm, and he sighed, repositioning her in his arms.

“You don’t ask him to do anything unless you absolutely have to,” Nat said curtly, looking back at him. There was a slightly wild look in her eye, and something inside him cringed. She was having a bad day, and that was never a good thing. “You need to stop avoiding him. You’re his boss. Act like it.”

He sucked in a quick breath, taking in air just before he felt his chest tighten. Suddenly everything – Nat’s snappish voice, the barking dogs, the customers breathing down his neck – was too much.

“Fine,” he said, wishing he could throw up his hands, only he couldn’t – his little wet dog was still bundled inside them. “I’ll make Steve make the bows, just – Jesus Christ.”

He spun out of the room before Nat had an opportunity to come at him again, putting his Morkie away in her kennel before throwing the door open to the main floor of the salon. He stalked to the rolling stack of drawers where the spools of ribbon were kept, muttering to himself as he cut away several long lengths of red.

Nat was a fast bather, but he was damn good at making bows.

“Fucking customers,” he mumbled, twisting the ribbon expertly into loops around his fingers – one, two, three, four – and fantasying about handing back the toy poodle with very big, very pink bows in its fluffy ears.

Would she say anything, he wondered? He thought about the twenty she usually slipped into his palm, and wondered if it was worth it. All this fucking bullshit, just for –

“Hey,” a voice said in front of him. He looked up, his thoughts instantly dying away.

“What?” he snapped, the word slipping out even as he cursed himself, because it was Steve, standing in front of him. Bucky blinked, trying to read his body language. It was a strange mix of sheepish and oddly deliberate, as if it had taken some kind of resolve for Steve to interrupt him.

“I’m –“ Steve began, the apology dying away on his lips. “I know you’re slammed today. Let me do that for you.”

Thank god Nat isn’t here to see this, he thought, rolling his eyes internally at the irony. He was already moving on to the second bow, his fingers forming the loops effortlessly.

“You know how to make these?” he asked, holding up the unfinished bow.

Steve sputtered for a moment, before steeling his face back into composure.

“Well, Natasha said I could practice in my free time, but there hasn’t really been any –“

“It’s fine,” Bucky said, securing a rubber band on the second bow. “I’m almost done with these, anyway.”

“But you might need more,” Steve said suddenly, and Bucky frowned at him.

“It’s fine,” he repeated.

“I can learn,” Steve said.

An awkward silence fell between them, and Bucky looked down, pretending that he needed to actually look at the bow in his hand in order to finish it.

“I know you can,” he said. His voice came out quieter than he intended, softer, and he cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak up. “I just – I don’t really have the time to teach you right now. I’m sorry.”

“Later, then,” Steve said. He didn’t phrase it as a question, but there was something in his voice, something tentative and uncertain, that made Bucky hear it as one.

“Sure,” he said quickly – too quickly, he realized. He swallowed, rolling his shoulders back so that he stood a little straighter. Talking to Steve – even about something as mundane as how to make bows – always seemed to make him want to hunch over, stare at the floor, play with his hands.

“Great,” Steve said back, just as quickly. 

Maybe Nat was right, he thought. He needed to focus more on pretending to be Steve’s boss. Or – acting like one, he corrected. Being one.

“Okay,” he said, holding the finished bow dumbly in his hand.

Nat was definitely right.

As if on clue, the door to the back swung open, and Nat walked briskly out. She paused, though, turning on her heels when she saw the pair of them hovering next to the cart of drawers and staring at each other.

“Oh, did Steve make those for you?” she asked, leaning pointedly over to glance at the bright red bows in Bucky’s hand. “Wow. Double bows! I thought you were the only one who makes those. Huh.”

She shot him an accusatory glare, and Bucky was torn between glaring back and giving her the finger. Steve, for his part, grabbed the broom and pretended to sweep.

He settled for just a glare, throwing the bows on his table and heading again for the back. He was annoyed enough, and, in a few minutes, busy enough again, to neglect obsessing over what he’d agreed to. It came back to him at odd moments throughout the day, but he reasoned with himself that Steve was likely to forget about it.

They’d have to wait until they both had spare time in the salon, which Bucky knew wouldn’t be happening until at least January. The thought was a relief, but also, the more he dwelt on it, a little bittersweet.

Mostly a relief, though.

That was why he was so unprepared when Steve brought it up less than six hours later.

There were closing the salon together. Nat and Sam had said their goodbyes, both looking a little haggard. Bucky couldn’t blame them – the cleaning they did at the end of the night was hardly exhausting, but every kennel grate he picked up felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Even the spray bottle of disinfectant felt like it was weighted with rocks.

He walked back stiffly into the salon proper, seeing that Steve was just finishing up the floor. He glanced at the clock – they’d be out ten minutes early. Not bad for another day from hell.

“Hey,” Steve said when he walked out. He was still looking down, sweeping the floor with an odd intensity. “We’re a little early, so – do you think you might have time to teach me the bow thing?””

Bucky all but lifted his jaw from the floor. Anyone in their right mind would be rushing out the door after the day they’d had, and here was Steve, asking for more.

He must’ve hesitated too long, because before he could think of what to say – or even what he wanted to say, for that matter – Steve was already backpeddling.

“I mean, you don’t have to,” he said quickly, picking up the broom and holding it awkwardly at his side. “Obviously you don’t – I’m sorry, it’s late. You probably just want to go.”

“Sure,” Bucky said.

“I figured,” Steve said, avoiding his eyes. He started sweeping again, although Bucky was pretty sure he’d gotten every last tuft of hair.

“No, I mean,” Bucky said, clearing his throat uncertainly. “Sure I’ll teach you.”

He rushed then to the cart of drawers with the ribbon, pulling out several spools before Steve had a chance to say anything else. Already his mind was edging into overdrive – would it have been better, to pretend that he just wanted to go home? Would Steve read into his wanting to stay?

“What’s your favorite color?” Bucky asked, suddenly.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Steve stiffen in surprise as he bent down with the dustpan.

“Excuse me?” the other man asked.

You’re making this weird, Bucky whispered in his mind. It doesn’t matter what fucking color you use, you’re just –

But it was too late, now.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked again, forcing his voice to be a little louder.

He waited, holding the spools in his hand and decidedly not looking back at Steve.

“Blue,” he answered, finally.

Bucky put away all but a spool with brilliant, dark blue ribbon. Steve, being an artist, probably knew the exact name of the color. Cerulean blue? No, it was too dark for that. But too light to be navy blue. Maybe –

But then his mind sputtered to a stop, because Steve was at his side, quietly waiting for him to turn around and begin the lesson.

He quickly cut away a few lengths of ribbons, sucking in a firm breath as he turned to hand one to Steve. The shorter man took it with a soft smile, the silk ribbon falling over his hand like water.

I’m just being a good boss, Bucky decided. Doing what Natasha said. This was what good bosses did, right? On the job training? Something like that. He’d tell Natasha that. He could hear himself saying it already, his voice light and casual – oh, yeah, last night I stayed late with Steve so I could –

Maybe he wouldn’t tell her about this.

“All right,” Bucky said, because he had to start talking at some point, even if his mind wouldn’t shut up. “It’s actually pretty easy. What you do is make a loop, like this –“

He demonstrated with his own ribbon, holding it out prominently so Steve could see.

Steve copied him silently, and part of Bucky’s mind was already aching with relief. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. A quick lesson, and they’d both be out of here.

“Right,” he continued. “And then you fold a second loop behind it, like this –“

He made the second loop, watching as Steve copied him again, but made the second loop too big in proportion to the first. He released it, carefully folding it again and this time making both loops uniform.

“Yeah, the hardest part is making it even,” Bucky said quickly. “And holding it together in one hand without it falling apart. Because then you have to take your other hand and use it to put the rubber band in the center –“

He acted out his instructions on his own bow, securing it perfectly. Then he watched as Steve tried to copy him, only as he stretched the tiny rubber band open too far, and it snapped.

“Ouch,” Steve said, immediately lifting his hand and sucking the tip of his finger into his mouth.

Silent alarm bells went off in Bucky’s mind, making his body stiffen up as he watched. Only for a half-second, though – almost immediately he was digging in the bag of rubber bands so he could offer a fresh one to Steve, and at the same time have something else to desperately look down at.

“That’s all right,” he muttered, fishing one out and all but flinging it toward him. “Try again.”

Steve did, slowly repeating the steps as Bucky watched. One loop, two, then the rubber band in the center – only, without any need to demonstrate, all he had to do was watch. And that meant –

There was an eagle on his forearm, a rich brown wing twisting beautifully from the underside and over the top. And the color surrounding it, the red, the blue – the blue was almost as rich and bright as the color of the ribbon. The color he couldn’t name, but really, really liked.

It fascinated him, the way the color blended so perfectly into his pale skin. It should’ve seemed unnatural, but instead it looked soft and warm and supple, and he wished he could reach out and –

The second rubber band snapped into place.

“You got it,” Bucky said softly. 

Why that tattoo? he wanted to ask. It was beautiful, but he couldn’t accept it as only that – he wanted to know the meaning behind it, the why. Did someone he loved die in the military? Was that how he had known - after the nightmare? 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Steve said, looking down at the finished bow in his hand. It was slightly lopsided, though Bucky would never have pointed that out. “I mean, you – you have such big hands.”

Bucky blinked, looking down at them, suddenly painfully aware of his wide palms. He clenched his fingers into a slow fist.

“Yeah,” he said, half-laughing the word, but with an unintended irony. Before the salon, the most delicate work these hands had done was pull back a trigger. “I guess so. Not like yours.”

He glanced up, just in time to watch Steve begin to examine his own hands. The other man was frowning down at them, and Bucky felt a surge of panic, wondering if he’d just insulted him – or even just made him feel self-conscious.

“I mean, your hands are like an artist’s,” he said quickly. “They’re –“

But he stopped himself before he said something stupid. Something like elegant, or delicate, or –

“I mean,” he continued, trying to steady himself. “You’re gonna be really good at bows. You’re an artist and being good with your hands must come naturally to you, right?”

He swallowed – that was only slightly weird to say.

“I guess,” Steve said. He laughed a little to himself, too, finally looking away from his palms and up again toward Bucky’s face. But something about his laugh was – nervous.

Instantly picking up on this, Bucky’s own nervousness flared, and he had a desperate urge to change the subject.

“How’s that going?” he asked hastily. “Art, I mean. Your art. School. Art school.”

Steve grinned, and Bucky bit back the litany of curse words that flowed through his mind at that horrible attempt to express himself.

“Good,” the other man said, lifting his thin shoulders and shrugging. “Good, but – I don’t know, lately, I’ve had all this energy and I try to draw it out of me but it’s just – endless. The tension. And no matter how much I –“

Bucky must’ve been staring, because suddenly Steve blinked and stopped himself.

“I’m sorry,” he began instead, drawing a hand back through the long part of his hair. “You don’t –“

“I do care,” Bucky said before he could stop himself. There was a tense moment of silence, then, where Steve stared back at him – and he had to keep talking to end it. “I mean – I’d be really interested to see your art. Sometime.”

“It’s not finished,” Steve said quickly. “But after the semester is over – maybe?”

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was a no or a yes, but he nodded all the same, giving Steve a small smile. Then he glanced up at the clock.

“Shit,” he said, eyes widening in surprise. “We should’ve left fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh,” Steve said. He clutched the blue bow in his hand, glancing down at it suddenly. “I guess we should – probably go then.”

“Probably should,” Bucky muttered. He set down his own bow, putting the spool and scissors away.

Later, as he walked back to his apartment building, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders stiff against the frigid air, he tried to remember what Steve had said about his art, back on his first day at work. He recalled something about people, but nothing – specific.

It was funny, how Steve didn’t talk much about the specifics of his art in the salon. Maybe it was too personal to him, something he kept close. Like how he was dating –

His mind soured immediately at that thought. He’d almost forgotten that little reality. Had Peggy seen his art, even in its unfinished form? Somehow it wasn’t hard to imagine her watching over his shoulder as he opened a sketchbook, carefully pointing out little details to her, his voice falling away as she leaned into his neck with her full, perfect red lips –

His hands tightened into fists inside his pockets.

Maybe Peggy was his muse. Maybe his sketchbook were filled, page after page, with her pretty face. And that was why Steve didn’t want him to see it.

He sighed into the freezing air, walking through the cloud his breath created. Maybe he didn’t need to see Steve’s art after all.

Only, though it made no sense – he did. He really did. Knowing about Peggy did almost nothing to sate his curiosity.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ----

 

Bucky rounded the corner into the bathing bunker. There was something on his lips, something important he had to say – but the words fell away almost instantly.

Steve was standing there, soaking wet. His black smock clung heavily to his chest, sucked against it with the wet and dripping where it cut across his thin thighs. 

He opened his mouth again – wanted to ask what had happened, because even his hair was wet, droplets running down the shaved sides of his head and over his cheekbones – even down along the graceful curves of his throat. Because there wasn’t even a dog –

But he didn’t ask.

“You should take that off,” he said slowly – his quiet, commanding voice echoing around the hollow room. 

Steve nodded obediently, lifting his hands – and those beautiful forearms, the tattooed skin all the more vivid when wet – to slowly slide down the zipper.

Bucky took in a breath when he saw what was underneath – a white t-shirt, and it was soaked through just as thoroughly, the wet fabric showing the pale skin beneath in sticky, peach-pink patches. He took a step forward.

“That, too,” he said lowly. 

And then he almost couldn’t breathe, watching as Steve let the parted smock fall from his shoulders onto the floor, then curled his fingers under the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up as he slowly arched his arms.

He couldn’t look away, didn’t care if he was staring. Finally, he could – he could take in every inch of skin, from the jut of his hipbones disappearing down into the top of his pants, to the subtle inward curve of his waist –

And then Steve had tugged the wet shirt over his head, sending it with a loud smack to some part of the floor. Bucky didn’t look to see.

Because he lifted his eyes, and now he could fully take in his chest, firm but slender – his pecs, and nipples that were pale pink and hard in the cold air, and –

He was walking forward, he was there, suddenly, backing Steve up against the hard metal edge of a tub. It must’ve hurt, must’ve dug into the small of his back, but Steve didn’t protest – only looked up at him with wide, wanting eyes, his mouth falling open.

And that mouth – the thick, full lips –

Warm hands were sliding up beneath his own shirt, fingers spreading on the small of his back, pulling him in, bringing him closer. It was more than enough permission.

Sighing softly in relief, because finally – God, finally! – he leaned down, and kissed him.

He could feel Steve’s body surge up beneath his as he pressed in, sucking in his lower lip. Then he felt it relax again beneath his hands as he heard him moan, low and quiet, in the back of his throat, as his hands – Steve’s hands, those delicate, beautiful artist’s hands – roamed higher up his back, exposing his skin to the cool air –

There was a sound from somewhere far away, echoing in the room. It made Steve’s hand stiffen with surprise, and then, as he whimpered in protest, pull away. He reached out, wanting to hold him again, but suddenly there was nothing – just the cold, hard, metal edge of the tub.

He squeezed it, gritting his teeth in want and frustration, as the sound grew louder and louder, the ringing –

He mumbled explicatives under his breath, grunting out pathetic death threats as he reached blindly out for his phone. It took a few tries, but in a moment it was clutched loosely in his hand, vibrating with every shrill ring.

“Burn in hell,” he muttered, before answering it in as dark a voice as he could muster. “Hello?”

“Mama says you’re incompetent so you have to bring the wine.”

He blinked, drawing in air through his nose as he slowly rolled himself over.

“What?” he asked, blinking blindly up at his ceiling.

“Mama says you can’t cook things so, you hafta bring wine.”

“Sofia?” he asked hoarsely. He forced himself to prop up on his elbows, glancing in a daze toward his bedroom window. No light blazed through the cracks in the blinds. 

“Are you really incompetent?” the voice behind the phone chirped. “My Daddy and I made cookies with chocolate chips and it was really easy except when you stir in the butter, that was really hard and it took muscles. But you have lots and lots of muscles, Uncle Bucky.”

He glanced at the clock on his phone’s screen, wincing at the bright light. 4:26 AM.

“Sofia,” he croaked. “Honey –“

“Or you can make the rolls. They come in a can and you twist it and it goes pop! It’s really scary,” she continued. “I know you don’t like scary sounds, Uncle Bucky, but I can make it pop for you.”

“It’s really early, sweetheart,” he mumbled. “Really, really – really – early.”

“Even though it’s scary for me too but not after. Or um, we can go to the farmer’s market and buy vegetables, Mama says that’s better then frozen, ‘cause –“

He sighed, punching through to his contacts and trailing down until he hit Clint’s name.

“Hold on hon’, all right?” he asked.

“Mm’kay,” Sofia said pleasantly. “Are you gonna go pee? I always pee when I wake up.”

He put the call on hold, then sent a call through to Clint, waiting patiently as it rang, and rang, and rang before suddenly being cut off. He heard a lot of rustling, followed by some of the same threats he’d whispered himself just moments before.

“Bucky?” came the hoarse voice. “I love you but you better be dead, man. Really dead. Or at least lost a limb or something.”

“Your eldest child has your wife’s cell phone,” he deadpanned. “And she knows how to use it.”

There was a long pause, and then “Fuck. Okay, fuck man, I’m – awe fuck. I’m really sorry.”

He switched back to the call with Sofia, throwing his head back in surrender on the pillow.

“I’m back,” he said. 

“Yay!” she shrieked. He heard a strange whiny sound, then realized what it was – the creak and moan of someone jumping on a bed. “I thought of other things you can cook ‘cause I think you can, Uncle Bucky, if you really, really try.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked. He arched his back, wiggling his toes as his mind finally began to switch awake.

“Yeah!” she said enthusiastically. “Like mashed potatoes. It’s fun because you have to mash them up. Which means to smush them a lot.”

He hummed in agreement, holding back a smile as he heard, behind the closeness of Sofia’s voice, a door slowly open.

“- or you can make sweet potatoes because you put marshmallows on them, Uncle Bucky, lots and lots and lots of marshmallows and if there are extras you can give them to me for eating plain! But you can’t make s’mores with them ‘cause they’re the really little ones like what you put in hot choco –“

“Sofia!” he heard in the background, the voice rough with sleep and more exhausted than angry. “Did you call Bucky in the middle of the night?”

There was a sudden stillness on the other end of the line – the absence of the rhythmic, creaking bounce of the bed.

“Can you hold on a moment, Uncle Bucky?” the little girl asked sweetly.

“Of course,” Bucky said, pushing the phone snug against his ear so he could hear their muffled conversation.

“It’s not the middle of the night!” Sofia was saying, her voice slightly far-off, but still bright. “I woke up and I’m not tired at all, so it hasta be –“

“Look out the window,” came Clint’s voice. “Is the sun shining?”

“No,” came the little girl’s voice – but only after a long, sullen pause.

“It’s not morning until the sun comes out,” Clint said firmly. “For some people – like your Daddy - maybe five or six hours after the sun comes out.”

“But Mama said I could invite Uncle Bucky for Thanksgiving tomorrow, and it’s tomorrow now,” she said, her voice dropping several octaves into sadness. Even with lack of sleep still aching behind his eyelids, Bucky couldn’t help his heart from dropping in time with her voice.

“She meant later,” Clint continued. “Like after breakfast, probably even after lunch. Because Uncle Bucky is really busy, honey, and he needs energy to make his dogs look pretty, and right now is his time to sleep.”

There was another long pause – too long, because by the time Sofia’s cracked little voice came through, he was already frowning deeply up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice nearly a whimper.

“It’s okay,” Clint said, his voice a bit more gentle. “But you need to get back on the phone and tell Uncle Bucky that you’re sorry, and that you promise only to call him in the daytime from now on.”

Bucky shifted his weight in bed, listening as a good deal of shuffling and rustling came over the line, and then a few quiet sniffles.

“Uncle Bucky, I’m very sorry,” Sofia said, the words stiff and deliberate, even as they tumbled together the longer she spoke. “Um, for calling you in the dark, and, um, I promise not to call you again until the sun is shining.”

“Oh, honey,” Bucky sighed. Despite the practical nature of needing Sofia to know that she couldn’t be calling him at all hours, part of him wanted to tell her that he didn’t mind, just to make her voice bright and full again. “I know you were just excited. But your Dad’s right, it is really early.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated quietly. And then, in a voice that was even quieter, almost a whisper – “But you’re still gonna come to Thanksgiving, right?”

Bucky chuckled to himself, a soft smile reappearing on his face.

“Of course I will,” he said firmly. “You know I wouldn’t miss Thanksgiving. And I’ll think about your, ahh, cooking suggestions too.”

“Yay!” Sofia yelped, her voice almost instantly restored. When he heard it, Bucky felt like someone was lifting a brick off his chest – maybe one or two bricks. “I knew you would say yes! Can I call you later, Uncle Bucky, when the sun is shining?”

“Sure,” he said, sighing pleasantly. “Just ask your Mom and Dad their permission, okay? I’m sure they don’t appreciate you stealing their phones.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Sofia said, a note of incredulity sneaking into her voice. “I just borrowed it, Uncle Bucky. Mama isn’t using it now, ‘cause she’s asleep.”

“Even so,” he said, grinning the words. “I’m gonna go now, okay honey?”

“Okay,” she said back brightly. “Here, Daddy says he wants to say good-bye, too. Good-bye, Uncle Bucky! Have a good breakfast later when the sun comes out!”

“Good-bye, sweetie,” he said, waiting as her voice died away and Clint’s came over the line.

“Dude,” he said, sighing. “Apologies. Kids, you know? I don’t know how the fu – how she got this thing open, Nat has her shit locked down. I don’t even know the effin’ passcode.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky said, realizing as he said the words that it was. While he certainly wouldn’t want Sofia calling him every morning at four, this time – he was pretty sure it was going to brighten his day. “Apology accepted. Water under the bridge.”

“If it makes you feel any better, there’s no way in hell I’m going back to sleep after this,” Clint said, his voice souring a little as he sighed.

“That does help a little,” Bucky said, stretching out his legs beneath his sheets. “Have fun doing the Dad thing.”

“Have fun doing the single thing,” Clint replied. “Lucky bastard.”

There was a beat, during which Bucky heard just a second of Sofia’s voice jumping in – and then the line went dead.

He pulled the phone away from his ear, setting it carefully on the nightstand. Then he rolled onto his back, once again staring up at the blank ceiling. Only this time he was fully awake, with Clint’s words echoing in his head.

He knew what he meant. And it was true, he was free, salon aside - he could do whatever the fuck he wanted –

He blinked, the thought of the salon triggering something in his mind – and then he remembered, vaguely, what he’d been dreaming about before his phone had gone off.

He gritted his teeth, glancing down at his twisted sheets to the area where his crotch would be. Whatever reaction he’d been having to the dream had died away, but he still felt empty, restless. It was early – ridiculously early – and he knew if he stayed in bed, closed his eyes, tried to narrow in on the details – or, better yet, just made up new details –

“No,” he said, muttering the word out loud. “Not going there.”

Even if it was a line he was drawing himself, it was a line he didn’t want to cross. Fawning over Steve’s tattoos at work was one thing. He couldn’t help himself when they were right in front of him. But jerking off to him, alone in bed –

“Fuck my life,” he whispered, huffing at the ceiling. That was not a good way to stop thinking about someone.

He heard a light thump, glancing up – as if summoned, Butterscotch had jumped onto the corner of the bed, walking toward him slowly, his paws sinking into the soft mattress. 

“Here to share my pain?” Bucky asked, reaching out and running a hand over his back. Butterscotch arched up into his touch. “You like being single, don’t you? I meant, granted they cut your balls off, but – it’s cool, right? No lady cat holding you down?”

He scratched at the base of his tail, feeling the vibration of a purr beneath his fingertips. 

“Or a man cat, I don’t know what you’re into,” he continued, going back to gentle strokes. “I don’t judge. Obviously.”

He dropped his head back to the pillow, facing the ceiling again. He should get up. Shower. Loitering around in his soft, warm bed was a dangerous idea.

But later, as the last dregs of shampoo were washed from his scalp and he stood still beneath the spray, warm water streaming down his cheeks – it was hard, almost impossible, not to let the dream come back to him. All that water - and that clingy, water-soaked smock spread tight over firm, pale skin.

He was human, after all. He had urges, and if he didn’t release them – he was never going to be able to move on.

That was why, minutes later, when he found himself panting to catch his breath, his forehead and the spread fingers of his left hand pressed against the cool, wet tile – he almost forgave himself.

 

\--- --- --- --- --- ---

 

Bucky frowned at the glowing screen in front of him, fighting the urge to let it turn into an all-out scowl.

He was reviewing the salon numbers, and they were good. Really good – an increase of over twenty percent compared to last year. They were in the black, and then some, and the holiday rush would only be icing on the cake.

He should be happy about it. He wanted to be happy about it. It only made sense to be happy about it.

The only problem was one line in the spreadsheet, contributing to the whole. The cupcake sales.

Nat had been right. Thanks to Peggy – Steve’s girlfriend, he forced himself to think, Steve’s girlfriend, even as the words made his stomach give an involuntary lurch – they were bringing in hundreds of extra dollars a month.

Which would translate into thousands over the course of a year, with virtually no effort on their part. And he should be happy about that.

He sighed, shoving himself back from the desk and spinning himself around in the office chair. It was money, good money – he should be planning what to do with it, instead of fantasizing about lighting the whole pile on fire.

Suddenly, the door opened, and he froze, stopping himself mid-spin.

Nat swooped in, hair pulled up perfectly as usual, with two Starbucks cups clutched in her hands.

“Is that?” Bucky asked, feigning shock as she stretched one toward him. “Did you actually – buy me a coffee? My very own Starbucks coffee?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Nat said, setting hers down on the desk so she could start shrugging off her wool coat. “Your order is a real bitch. But I heard about Sofia’s little wake-up call, and, well – I don’t like any red in my ledger.”

“And you think Starbucks is going to make it up to me?” he asked, leaning back in the office chair and bringing his hands together conspiratorially. “I’m thinking - $50 Amazon gift card. No, wait – Broadway – orchestra seats –“

“Stop being an ass and drink your coffee,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “I’m sorry, by the way, in case that wasn’t clear – oh God, don’t smile at me that way.”

“Go on,” Bucky said, picking up his Starbucks cup and savoring the moment. “You were saying something that started with ‘I’m –,’ I think it was, ‘I’m –‘”

“I asked her how she knew my passcode,” she said, ignoring him and taking a seat on the other side of the desk. “Do you know what she said? She said she watched my fingers when I typed it in. I’m actually a little impressed.”

“Damn,” Bucky said, grinning. “I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Anyway,” Nat said, settling back in her own chair. “Going over the numbers for last month? They’re excellent, I know. As salon manager, I take all the credit.”

“Please,” Bucky said, raising his eyebrows. “Half of it is those fucking –“

Then, hearing the bitterness in his voice, he cut himself off. He was the only one who had a problem with the dog cupcakes, and he knew he wouldn’t get an ounce of sympathy from Natasha. Not when profits were involved.

But it was too late.

“You’re still hung up on that, huh?” she asked, raising her cup slowly to her lips. “Peggy? You really suck at pretending to be nice, you know, for someone who works in the service industry. I know she and Steve –“

“They’re dating,” he said, setting his own cup down a little too hard on the desk. 

There was a stiff pause – unusual, in a conversation with Natasha. Rarely was she surprised.

“What?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “How do you know?”

Better, he decided, just to get it all out in the open. That way, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with Nat’s backhanded attempts to get them together.

“I saw them,” he said, carefully keeping his voice level. “On Halloween, when I was trick-or-treating with Sofia, outside of a restaurant. They kissed. On the lips, before you ask.”

There was another pause – which was, again, a little nerve-wracking for Bucky to sit through, because Nat always had a response ready. This time, though, she only blinked, briefly staring out into the space in front of her in confusion.

“Wow,” she said, finally gathering herself after a few seconds. “That’s – I didn’t expect that. I didn’t know, honestly. They don’t act like they’re together.”

“I’m sure they’re just being discreet,” Bucky said, still careful to keep the distaste out of his voice. “They’re both like that, aren’t they? Kind of private. Probably perfect for each other.”

There was another brief silence, but this time, not out of surprise. He watched as Nat’s lips turned down into a frown.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was so sincere that Bucky could barely stand to hear it.

He took in a loaded breath, stamping down the tension that ached suddenly in his chest.

“Why?” he said, too quickly. He fought the urge to stand, to pace, to fling his body in any random direction. “What’s there to be sorry for? It’s fine. I’m sure they’re – happy. And they’ll tell us when they’re ready for us to know. If Steve sticks around that long, anyway.”

Nat, for her part, didn’t say anything. If he hadn’t been fighting so hard to remain composed, he might’ve felt a surge of gratitude for that.

“Anyway,” he said, finally allowing himself to stand, and ignoring the fact that Nat hadn’t said anything in response, “We should probably –“

“Sit down,” Nat said, her voice an odd combination of curt and gentle. “There might be a problem.”

Immediately, he obeyed her, trying to ignore the trepidation that suddenly ballooned in his chest.

“What?” he asked dumbly. “What – what problem?”

Nat sighed a little under her breath, taking another sip of her coffee.

“I invited him to our Thanksgiving,” she said.

Bucky cringed, his teeth grinding as his mind digested that news. Thanksgiving – a time when he could be surrounded by people that understood and accepted him, when he could escape, for just a little while, the feeling that –

“I didn’t know, Bucky,” Nat continued, her soft voice constrained. “If I had, I wouldn’t have – fuck. I’m going to have to buy you another coffee.”

Bucky frowned, swallowed, stiffened up his shoulders.

“It’s fine,” he said again, trying to force as much casualty into his voice as possible. “Why would that be a problem? We work together, it’s not like it would be that – awkward.”

“It’s not fine,” Nat said, her tone taking on a tinge of bitterness. “I shouldn’t have invited him. He just casually mentioned that he didn’t have family to spend the day with, and I knew Sam would offer but he’d be a bit of third wheel around him and Riley, and – I thought I was helping you, by giving you a chance to spend time with him.”

Bucky half-smiled, but he didn’t think it turned out.

“I appreciate the effort,” he said, trying to find the truth in his words and express it as best he could. For all he fought against it, he did appreciate it – Nat’s attempts to make him live a little - more. “You were trying to push me, and this time it just – didn’t work out.”

“I shouldn’t,” Nat repeated. “Push you. I should trust you to live your own life. Take those steps when you’re ready.”

“It’s fine,” he said again. This time, the words were a little more sincere. “I like Steve, and I want – I want to be his friend. Something good can come out of this, right?”

“Of course,” Nat said, shaking her head a little. She slowly stood. “And now I’m going to go set up for my shift, because if I stay in here any longer, I might do something like try to hug you, and that would just be – over the top.”

“Thank god you have some self-control,” Bucky said, following her lead and standing too. He did feel better – slightly. “Red or white?”

“What?” Nat asked, turning around as she reached the door.

“The wine?” Bucky said. “For Thanksgiving? Sofia informed me I’m too incompetent in the kitchen to be trusted to cook anything, so I have to bring the wine.”

A little smirk crossed her red lips at that.

“Right, the wine,” Nat said, raising her eyebrows. “For this Thanksgiving? Maybe vodka.”

“You’re speaking my language,” Bucky said, returning her smile. It was almost easy.

He crossed the salon to his table, trying to push away his thoughts. It wasn’t a good idea to dwell on it, on all of this, at work. Or ever, really. He needed to get used to the idea of Steve as something else. An employee, a co-worker – maybe, if he was lucky, a friend.

He pulled open his drawer, mouth immediately falling open as he looked inside.

Bows, dozens of them, in every color of ribbon they had. But red, and blue, more than any other.

He swallowed, picking one up and rubbing the silk loops between his thumb and finger. And then he forced himself to think it again.

An employee, a co-worker. Maybe, if he was lucky -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to reach into my author's bag of cheap tricks and write a sexy-dream-that-gets-interrupted-before-it-gets-explicit because I feel a little guilty that this story is moving so slowly and yet - people still read it? So ... I'm sorry and you're welcome? I really hope you liked it, because I had to take at least three breaks proofreading just that one scene because I got embarrassed reading my own writing.


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